


Twelve Days of Fictmas 2019

by SylvanFreckles



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, Attempt at Humor, Castiel Whump (Supernatural), Christmas, Dad Jokes, Dean Winchester Whump, Everyone is Badass at Some Point, Family Feels, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt/Comfort, Jack Kline is a Winchester, Jack is a Cinnamon Bun, Merry Christmas, Mother Hen Dean Winchester, Psychological Torture, Sam Winchester Whump, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Torture, Violence, Witchcraft, sorry it kind of sucks, too many goats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:48:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 30,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21787033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylvanFreckles/pseuds/SylvanFreckles
Summary: It's that time again! Twelve delicious bite-sized morsels of holiday cheer! All stories are gen, pairing-free, and no character death this time (pinky swear). Technically set in an AU of season 14, so no season 15 spoilers either.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Castiel & Jack Kline & Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Jack Kline & Mary Winchester, Jack Kline & Rowena MacLeod, Jack Kline & Rowena MacLeod & Mary Winchester, Rowena MacLeod & Sam Winchester
Comments: 57
Kudos: 46





	1. Twelve Hunters Hunting

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are again!
> 
> First off, I apologize if you don't celebrate Christmas and this offends you in some way. I'm doing this because I celebrate Christmas and this is my gift to you. If you celebrate a different holiday at this time of year--or no holiday at all--I wish you happiness and peace and a blessed time.
> 
> Second, these all take place in an AU where Apocalypse Michael never reopened the tear. So it's alternate from the finale of Season 13. Just because that's a time when everyone is together and alive and stuff.
> 
> Finally, this is going to be significantly fluffier than last year's edition. Sorry to disappoint, but it won't end with three chapters of Cas whump and comfort, but I think you'll like the finale all the same. Well, happy holidays, and hope you enjoy!

“Here we go,” Dean eased the Impala into the parking lot of the little grocery store in Hugo, Minnesota. “Sammy, you got the details on the case?”

“Yeah, uh,” Sam scrolled through his phone, half-turning in his seat to include the rest of the car. “So we've got four dead so far, all with the same M.O.”

“Slit throat, dried yarrow flowers and a piece of a goat's hoof placed in the throat cavity,” Castiel replied. Beside him, Jack was studying the comings and goings of the small town with interest. “I thought Sheriff Hanscum usually took on hunts in this area?”

“Well, you know,” Dean climbed out of the car, tucking the keys into his pocket. “I figured, with the holidays and all, maybe we could help her out. Pop in and say hi.”

“It would be nice to see Donna again,” Jack commented, surreptitiously trying to copy Dean's casual lean against the car. Dean noticed, but glanced away before the kid realized. At least he was emulating the cool parent.

“So, Cas and I'll take the morgue while you and Jack get what we need for the ritual?” Sam offered, circling around to the trunk to pull out his suit. They were lucky Hugo had its own morgue, at the local hospital, despite being in the same county as Stillwater, where Donna was sheriff.

“Sounds good,” Dean slapped the kid on the shoulder. “Ready for this?”

“Yes,” Jack nodded. “I have the list right here, and I,” he lowered his voice, giving an exaggerated glance around the parking lot even though no one was close to them in the parking lot, “I have the credit card you gave me.”

“Okay, Jack,” Dean let out a chuckle and rested his hand on the kid's neck as they walked to the store. “Just play it cool, all right?”

“Cool.” Jack nodded, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I'll be cool.”

“Right.” Dean shook his head and tugged a shopping cart free from the line in the front of the store. The kid was great and all, but it was kind of like Cas when he'd first rebelled against heaven crossed with an over-eager puppy. Endearing, a little annoying, but just so enthusiastic about life as a hunter it brought a smile to Dean's lips. “Okay, think you can handle the spices?”

“I have the list,” Jack reminded him, holding the paper up. “Dried sage, rosemary, poblano peppers...”

“That's...yeah, that's great,” Dean held his hand up. “You've got the list. Go nuts.”

Jack beamed and took off through the store, easily weaving through the gathering crowds. At least dried herbs were easier to find these days, thanks to the cooking show boom. Dean could still remember his teenage days when his dad would have to track down sesame oil or Himalayan salt. Now you could just order that crap off Amazon.

But, stopping at this store had a two-fold objective. They could get what they needed to summon whatever nasty was doing this, and Dean could pick up ingredients to make burgers at Donna's place. Not that they had an invitation or anything, as this was a surprise trip, but he figured she wouldn't say no.

“Well, speak of the devil,” Dean muttered, rounding the corner to the meat section. There, poring over the packaged meat, was Donna Hanscum.

Dean left his cart at the end of the aisle, pulling it against the side to keep it out of the way, and slowly crept up behind the blond sheriff to peer over her shoulder as she considered a four-pack of steaks. “I think you might need a few more,” he murmured into her ear.

Donna jumped, spun around, then smacked him on the shoulder with a grin. “Dean Winchester! Ya scared the bazeejus outta me!”

Dean chuckled and let the woman wrap her arms around him. “Good to see you, Donna. What brings you out here?”

“Oh, I gotta case,” Donna replied, tossing the steaks into her own cart and turning back to select more. “Four dead. Real nasty.”

“Yeah?” Dean leaned back against the front edge of the display case to watch Donna's profile as she studied a package. “Throats slit, nasty stuff in the wounds?”

“Don't tell me you're here for that, too?” Donna turned to stare at him.

Dean smirked and spread his arms. “Thought we'd visit while we had the case. Sound good?”

Donna beamed, piling a few more steaks into the cart. “Kinda like a family reunion, huh?”

“...What?” Dean followed Donna down the aisle, hurrying back to retrieve his own shopping cart. “Reunion?”

“Oh, you know. Just you and the others. It'll be fun!”

“Others?” Dean hurried to catch up, but a trio of housewives arguing over a display of holiday ham separated him from Donna. “What others?”

* * *

“Sam Winchester!”

“Jody!” Sam pulled the older woman in to a hug. “What are you doing all the way up here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Jody retorted, nodding in greeting to Castiel. “Let me guess...four victims, all killed the same way, all signs pointing to something nasty?”

“Yeah,” Sam ran a hand through his hair, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one was close enough to hear. “Guess you heard about it, huh?”

“Oh yeah,” Jody nodded. “Claire caught wind of it, but since this is Donna's turf the rest of us tagged along for a visit.”

“The rest of you?” Sam glanced at Cas, who had taken a few steps away to watch an ambulance pull in to the ER bay. “The girls are here?”

“Alex is out with Donna, picking up some groceries,” Jody explained. “Claire dragged Patience off somewhere, said she had an idea about the case. So here I am, about to explain why a sheriff from Sioux Falls, South Dakota, needs information on a case in Hugo, Minnesota.”

“Well, we can help with that,” Sam said, tugging out his FBI ID. He gestured to Cas to follow, and the three of them maneuvered through the hospital lobby to the basement morgue. The hospital wasn't very busy, thankfully, though Sam noticed that the three of them drew a fair number of stares. Between Jody's uniform and his and Cas's suits, he had expected a fair bit of attention but this was more like confusion than surprise.

“Dr. Anders,” Jody called, spotting a white-coated figure down the hall. “Excuse me, Dr. Anders?”

A middle-aged man with a pair of glasses with bright red frames resting on his head stopped in his steps and turned to face Jody, his expression a mix of impatience and irritation. “Yes?”

“Jody Mills, Sioux Falls sheriff's department,” Jody held out her hand, though the doctor didn't take it. “Sheriff Connors said you were handling the vagrant case?”

Dr. Anders grunted. “I'm a very busy man, Sheriff.”

“I'm sure you are. I just need to see the bodies.”

“And what,” Dr. Anders began, drawing up a little, “what possible interest could Sioux Falls have in this case?”

“It matches three of our victims,” Sam interjected, holding up his FBI badge. “Agents Page and Nash.”

“What, more of you?” Anders sneered. “How many of you feds are sticking your fingers in this case?”

That brought Sam up short. Jody shot him a puzzled frown and Cas looked away, as though trying to feel out any other allies or enemies in the building. “You've already spoken with someone?”

“Yeah. Let's see...” Anders tugged his glasses down so he could run a hand through his thinning hair. “That's it, Dolenz and Jones. Older gentleman and a blonde woman. Left about ten minutes ago.”

* * *

“You're kidding,” Dean said, tucking the phone between his shoulder and ear as he took a share of the bags out of Donna's car.

“ _The doctor was pretty clear. Said they left about ten minutes ago, we're gonna see if we can catch up.”_

“I don't believe it.” He and Jack followed Donna and Alex up the short path to the cabin they'd rented for the next few days. It had been the only thing available on short notice, so while it had originally been too big for the five women there was still plenty of room for the Winchesters. “Bobby and Mom. I thought they were in Missouri?”

“ _Yeah, me too,”_ Sam's sigh echoed over the phone. _“Gotta go, Jody's got an address.”_

“Yeah, yeah, you guys be careful. And say hi to Mom for me.” Dean waited for his brother's acknowledgement before hanging up the phone, chuckling to himself as he set the bags down on the counter.

“Mary's here?” Jack asked, a case of beer in each hand.

“Bobby too,” Dean replied with a nod. “Man, this really is a family reunion.”

Donna was all smiles as she and Alex unpacked the bags. “You boys can take the top floor. If there aren't enough sheets and things we've probably got extra.”

“Hey, no problem,” Dean easily reached over Alex's head to take down the mixing bowl she'd been straining for. “Thanks for letting us crash here.”

“Any word about the case?” Jack asked, sitting on a stool at the kitchen island. The cabin was nice and spacious, with a center common room that reached up three stories with the bedrooms separated by a balcony on either side of a central stairwell. Dean left the ladies to handle the rest of the groceries and started piling kindling into the big fireplace, half-listening to Donna's answer.

“Well, there isn't' much more than what Dean was saying,” the blonde sheriff admitted. “Four dead, looks like they were homeless. The kind of people nobody misses.”

“That's sad,” Jack said. “Somebody should miss them.”

“Oh, kiddo,” Donna paused to rest a hand over Jack's. “You're so right.”

She worked in silence for a few moments, pausing only to consult with Alex on a recipe the younger woman had pulled up on her phone. “Let's see, what else,” Donna mused, lining up paper cups on the side of the counter. “You know about the stuff in their throats, right? Yarrow, goat hoof, and lavender?”

“Lavender?” Dean glanced up, flames now licking at the kindling in the fireplace. “I hadn't heard that.”

“Oh, yeah,” Donna nodded. “That was deeper in their throats. We just got that in the report this morning.”

“Anything else?” Dean brushed his hands off on his pants, walking over to stand behind Jack.

“Jodes is checking with the coroner. Well, I guess she was,” Donna shrugged. “Guess your mom checked with the coroner, and Jodes is checking with her.”

Suddenly, the front door slammed open and two sets of running feet pelted into the room. “Donna!” Claire came around the corner, taken aback at the sight of Dean and Jack (Jack waved, Dean nodded). “I found something!”

Patience was close behind her, mud caked on the knees of her jeans and a dark smudge across her forehead. “She was right, Donna,” Patience agreed. “I think Claire's solved it.”

* * *

It was a good thing Donna had gone in for a couple of big pans of lasagna in addition to the steaks, as they were suddenly feeding ten hunters instead of five. Bobby and Mary had followed the others back to the cabin, taking advantage of the chance to share information.

“Rohypnol?” Sam took the report Mary was passing around. “They were drugged?”

“No sulfur...but traces of marijuana,” Mary replied.

“So not a demon,” Dean surmised, leaning over the couch to read the report over Sam's shoulder.

“No, can't be,” Claire interjected, digging around in the canvas bag she had over her shoulder. “The yarrow flowers gave me an idea...Patience and I found this at the crossroads just outside town.”

Sam studied the old tin lunchbox Claire set down on the table. She flipped it open to reveal the all-too-familiar contents of a summoning spell. “So, what, someone was summoning a crossroads demon?”

“And they failed,” Castiel replied. He dug fearlessly into the little box and pulled out a piece of bone. “Bone from a black cat. This would have burned to ash if the demon was summoned.”

“Well, it fits,” Bobby remarked. He'd taken a cup of coffee from Donna and topped it off with a generous measure of whiskey. “Followed the pattern of the bodies...it's a summoning.”

“Pattern?” Dean glanced at the older man, a frown wrinkling his forehead. “What pattern?”

“Here,” Mary spread a map out, gently moving the box to one side. “The bodies were found in these places, see? And if you place a fifth one here...”

“You can make a pentagram,” Sam finished. “So you think someone is, what, using these murders to try to summon a demon?”

“It ain't a common spell,” Bobby replied. “You need willing, innocent blood.”

“Rohypnol.” Jody shook her head. “So he's drugging his victims to use them in the ritual.”

“And the last one is tonight,” Bobby said. “Looking for a deal that big, somebody's gotta answer.”

The room fell silent for a moment. Jody was studying the map, Alex perched on the arm of the couch next to her. Claire and Patience had their heads together as Claire quietly explained the crossroads ritual to her surrogate sister. Cas had taken a few steps back to peer out one of the windows, probably concerned that this many of them in one place had attracted the wrong attention. Jack, Sam, and Mary were huddled over the coroner's report while Bobby looked on, taking another swig from a mug that was probably more whiskey that coffee now.

“I mean it's obvious, right?” Dean finally spoke up. There's eleven of us here. We go out to this spot, we stop the bad guy.”

“Even if this location isn't exact,” Mary agreed, “we could split up, cover a lot of ground.”

“Right, well, dibs on the angel!” Jody called.

* * *

Dean couldn't quite understand how he'd gotten saddled with Claire and Patience (though it made sense, he knew, to put Patience with a larger team since she was the least experienced). The look of relief on Cas's face, however, when the angel realized Claire would be with Dean had stopped all the older hunter's protests.

Who knew he was a sucker for overprotective angels?

“Hey,” Claire nudged him with her shoulder, jerking her chin toward an alleyway. “Hear that?”

The faintest sound of metal scraping echoed up the damp street. Dean paused, tilting his head a little to focus on the sound.

There it was again. Like someone was dragging a pipe along the concrete.

“What is it?” Patience whispered, tucking herself just behind Claire's shoulder to keep watch down the street behind them.

“Stay here,” Dean ordered, holding his hand out in front of the girls. He ignored Claire's hissed protests and eased himself into the shadows of the alley, advancing forward toward the sound.

The alley opened up into a small parking lot behind a handful of storefront businesses. There was one car at one end of the lot, frost starting to etch its way across the windshield in a way that suggested it had been here a while. Other than that...nothing. Nothing that could have made that sound. He started to turn back, but a flash of movement in the corner of his eye had him dropping to a defensive position as someone lunged at him with a knife.

“Dean!” Claire was sprinting toward him, gun at the ready, Patience right behind her with a shotgun.

“Dean?”

His assailant paused, knife still held high, but took a step back to stare up at him. “Dean? Winchester?”

“What the hell?” Dean flicked his light on, illuminating a familiar face under a cascade of red hair. “Charlie?”

* * *

“His name is Ian Hastings,” Charlie explained. They'd all gathered back for her information. Ten hunters and an angel clustered around a petite redhead with a laptop. “He's changed identities a few times, but I've got him.”

“How did you trace him?” Sam asked, peering down at the open programs on her screen.

“Cell phones,” Charlie replied. “I'd spotted his license plate at three of the scenes, which isn't much but it was a start. I did a back trace on his phone and he was in all four areas at the time of the murders.”

“It could be a coincidence,” Mary suggested.

“Yeah, when is it ever,” Dean muttered. “Do you know where he is?” he asked.

“He's supposed to be here,” Charlie gestured around. “The time is right, this is the right place...he should have turned up by now.”

“Maybe he didn't get the memo,” Dean said. He wasn't trying to be snarky, but this had turned from a easy hunt with an old friend to a nightmare with too many hunters.

“We should spread back out,” Sam suggested, his voice low. “If he sees all of us together...”

“Too late.” Cas siezed Dean's arm, his focus on the mouth of the alley. “He's coming.”

It was ridiculous. Eleven hunters and an angel...okay, twelve hunters, just one of them angelic...scurrying for hiding places like it was the poor bastard's surprise party. Dean crouched awkwardly behind a dumpster, Cas on one side and Mom on the other.

The world was still. Dean was about to argue with Cas—the angel must have gotten something wrong—when he heard the faint whistle from the mouth of the alley. Then, through the late-night mist as fog rose off the streets, a man appeared with a heavy bundle over one shoulder.

Cas's hand clamped on Dean's shoulder as the hunter prepared to charge. Ian Hastings had turned on a small battery-operated lantern and was fussing with the bundle he'd brought into the parking lot.

Fabric rolled away, and an arm flopped out. Dean couldn't see if the person Ian had been carrying was still breathing, but his gut told him it was time to move. He glanced over at Cas and the angel nodded subtly.

Then, praying that the others would follow his lead, Dean charged out of cover toward the Ian Hastings.

* * *

Sam followed Dean into asction, dropping to one knee to shoot over Hastings' head when the man started to pull his own gun out. Dean tackled the man, rolling him away from his victim, and Alex sprinted out of the shadows to kneel beside the unconscious figure wrapped in the blanket.

“Sam!” Jody had a high-powered flashlight in her hands. Sam nodded, and she snapped it on to illuminate the fight in the center of the parking lot.

Ian was fighting with desperation...but Dean was taller, faster, and stronger.

Even so, it was only a few moments before more hunters than were strictly necessary had come to Dean's aide and hauled the two apart, planting Hastings facedown with his hands cuffed behind his back.

“The hell, man?” Dean asked, panting for breath, squatting down to get a good look at the man. “You want to lose your soul that badly?”

“He's already lost it,” Cas replied. The angel was standing a few feet away, staring down at Ian. “You made a deal, didn't you?”

Hastings glowered up at Cas, clamping his mouth shut and turning away.

“His contract is almost up,” Cas continued, kneeling beside Hastings to touch two fingers to his tenple. “He has nine months left before the hellhounds come for his soul.”

The man swore and twitched against the cuffs, but Donna had a knee in his back and her gun leveled at the base of his neck.

“That right?” Dean bent down. “You made a deal? Sold your soul? So, what...you looking for a contract extention?”

Ian spat at Dean.

The older Winchester slowly stood up, wiping the saliva from his cheek. “No wonder no one would deal with you.”

Sam leaned up closer to his brother, pitching his voice low but just loud enough for Hastings to hear. “What do you think?”

“I say we let Donna take him,” Dean suggested. “Let him spend the next nine months locked up tight, just waiting for the end.”

Hastings' eyes widened in panic. “No, wait! Listen to me, I--”

Donna shoved his head back down, reciting off his rights as Jody helped her pull Hastings to his feet. Nearby, Bobby was helping Alex bring the almost-victim back around as Mary pulled Charlie to one side to explain something to her in brief, urgent tones.

“Well,” Dean checked his watch, then took another look around the group. “It's a good thing Donna bought all that steak up.”

“What?” Sam frowned at his btother, moving to one side as the sheriffs ushered Ian Hastings out.

“We got a lot of hunters to feed this morning, Sammy. I'm thinking steak and eggs.”

Sam snorted, leaning back again as Bobby and Alex carefully guided Hastings' victim down the alley toward Alex's car for a visit to the hospital. Claire and Jack were debating something in hushed tones, while Patience looked like she'd been caught in the middle of an argument. Cas had taken up a watchful position again, one eye on the group and one eye out for danger, a fond smile creeping across his face.

“Yeah,” Sam agreed.

After all, the holidays were about family.


	2. Eleven Witches Witching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rowena asks the boys for help when a small-town coven starts to get involved with some darker magic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's that? I'm early? It must be Christmas or something!

Elaine's Teahouse was one of the last places Sam Winchester would have entered in his life, but here he was. It was packed with little tables, all different shapes and sizes and covered in doilies, and almost every surface held something antique or fragile (or both). Not exactly the place a 6'4” hunter would usually meet a contact...but this was Rowena.

The witch had settled into a blue upholstered chair at one of the smallest tables in the teahouse, sipping tea from a china cup. Sam eyed the chair opposite, feeling like there was no way his knees could even fit under the table. “Well, Samuel?”

Sam shot her a quick, nervous smile and eased himself down onto the chair. He started to scoot it closer to the table, but froze when the wood creaked ominously. “So, what's going on?”

“Not even a spot of tea first?” Rowena nudged one of the cups toward him. The china looked paper-thin, with a delicate rose pattern etched into the outside and a gold rim around the mouth of the cup.

It also looked like it would snap if he touched it.

“Just tell me what's going on.”

“Party pooper,” Rowena teased, resting her cup on its saucer. “There's a wee bit of trouble in this little town. Seems someone is trying to start a new coven.”

Sam raised his eyebrows. Rowena was their ally, now, but he didn't think she objected to witchcraft in general. “And this is a problem to you?”

“Well, yes! They've been doing awful things! They're just trying to be rich and important and get one over on their little petty enemies.”

Sam glanced around to make sure no one was listening in on their conversation and leaned a little closer. “Isn't that what you did?”

“Yes, dear, but I had _style_!” Rowena gave an offended sniff and dabbed at her mouth with an embroidered napkin. “I didn't give myself a winning lotto ticket, or the lead in the community theater, or get a seat on the home owners' association.”

He had to concede that. Rowena's plans had been more...malevolent. “And what's the problem?” Obviously, playing around with witchcraft was dangerous, but he didn't see why that needed their involvement when Rowena could probably scare these witches out of the practice on her own.

“It's an HOA, Sam. Fergus wouldn't even trifle with those. They're worse than pure evil.”

Sam held back a snort of laughter. “Okay, other than the HOA. You said it yourself, this is all petty stuff. Why did you call it an emergency?”

“Well...” Rowena traced the gold edge of her saucer with one manicured finger. “It's not just that it's petty. It's gateway witchcraft. There's someone at the heart of this, someone powerful, and I think they're just trying to pull in the others for something big.”

Of course. That made more sense. They'd had a case like that, years ago before Dean went to hell. The witch in charge had turned out to be a demon, manipulating the women around her for her own agenda. If that was this situation, then it was the junior witches who were in real danger. “Do you have any leads?”

“Of course,” Rowena bent down to pull a leaflet out of her handbag. “These things all started happening six months ago. Right about the time this shop opened.”

Sam studied the leaflet. It was for a local naturopath shop—not the kind that offered herbal remedies and holistic care, the kind that sold mostly crystals and vials of colored salt and scented oils. Naturopathy could be a hunter's best friend, as it made some of the hard-to-find spell components more available, but in a lot of places it was just an excuse to cash in on a fad. “Have you checked it out?”

“Oh, no, dear,” Rowena sipped at her tea, pausing to savor the taste. “They'd spot me from a mile away. That's why I called you.”

“Right,” Sam gave a quick nod and glanced back down at the paper in his hands. Dean and Cas were supposed to be back at the hotel looking for evidence of trouble, but he had the sneaking suspicion that his brother was just going to drag the angel to a bar. “Guess I'll check it out.”

“Sam?” Rowena stopped him with a hand on his wrist, her expression serious. “Be careful. Something stronger than mere hedge witchery is at work.”

Sam nodded again, flashing her a reassuring smile. “We'll be all right.”

* * *

“Zaranya's Treasures,” Dean read the sign from the road, leaning across the roof of the car to study the little boutique. “This is the place Rowena mentioned?”

“Yeah, I've been looking into it,” Sam replied. Smart phone in hand, he took a few steps away from the Impala and glanced up and down the street as though counting the number of buildings. “Used to be a law office, but six months ago the practice suddenly went out of business. Then one day Zaranya showed up, and that's that.”

“But businesses change all the time,” Dean countered. “Doesn't mean she's a witch.”

“Doesn't mean she isn't,” Sam said, pocketing his phone. “Anyway, it's worth checking out.”

Dean let out a sigh, rolling his eyes at Cas to follow them into the store. Bad enough that all three of them were going in at once, at least one of them had to inconspicuously look for signs of witchcraft. These places were almost always packed full of knickknacks, shelves too narrow, ceiling too low, damn near claustrophobic for anyone over about 5'6”.

Zaranya's Treasures was all he'd feared, and more. The building itself should have been spacious, but enough strings of herbs and charms hung from the rafters to nearly fill the vaulted ceiling. Three different kinds of incense were burning in separate corners, and some horrible new-age synth music was being piped in from somewhere else in the building.

Zaranya herself looked like she dressed to camouflage herself with her shop. Draped in scarves, necklaces, and crystals with bright blue eyeshadow and a heavily-rouged face, Zaranya could have been anything from an old thirty-three to a young fifty-five.

Dean was betting on the fifty-five, though, as she immediately latched onto Sam.

“What can Madame Zaranya do for you today?” the woman practically purred, linking her arm through Sam's and trying to turn him away from the others. “I just finished cleansing my tarot cards...readings are normally twenty-five but I'll give you a special.”

“We're just here for some information,” Dean interjected, moving around to block the woman's path back to the counter. Behind her, he could see Cas venturing further into the shop—at least the angel was as good as a witch when it came to detecting magic.

Zaranya looked unimpressed. “Many come seeking my services,” she replied, tossing a lock of grayish-purple hair behind one shoulder (the original color could have been anything from gray to ash blond, but a badly-faded dye job made it indistinguishable). “What information did you want?”

“Witchcraft,” Sam said, gently pulling his arm free. “That is, we've heard some rumors about witchcraft? Spells actually working?”

“I see,” Zaranya nodded, looking back and forth between them. “And why would you ask me for such things?”

“Well, your shop is incredible,” Sam replied, gesturing at the displays around him. “I haven't been able to find unpolished hawk's eye quartz anywhere...and is that dried hyssop?”

Good for Sammy, pulling all that witchy hoodoo out of his pocket. Zaranya seemed pacified, though she still gave Dean a hard look. The older Winchester tried to smile at her, but the scent of the incense was giving him a headache and the row of effigies along the back wall was just plain creepy.

“I might have something for someone with...discerning taste,” Zaranya admitted, circling back to the counter. “There are a few little things I can do. Nothing big, however,” she warned, pulling out an old book. “Now, how experienced are you with magic?”

Dean left Sam to talk to the shopkeeper (and probable witch) and wandered toward the front of the store. There was a rack of dreamcatchers, each one set with little pieces of stone that would apparently channel and redirect energy. Little jade Buddha statues to promote wealth. Rack upon rack of essential oils promising everything from increasing fertility to curing acrophobia.

“Dean?”

The older hunter nearly jumped to find his brother suddenly at his elbow. “Son of a bitch, Sammy. What is it?”

“I, uh...she's asking us to leave.”

“What?” Dean looked over his shoulder at Zaranya. She didn't seem upset, but was standing in front of her counter with her arms folded. “What happened?”

“She closes at noon on Saturdays,” Sam said, running a hand through his hair nervously. “I guess I didn't see the sign.”

Dean rolled his eyes, following his brother out the door as Sam exchanged a few final words with Zaranya about a spell for his (fictional) parakeet. “Well, that was pointless,” Dean complained as soon as the door closed behind them. He stalked toward the car, ready to track Rowena down and make her pay for wasting their time. This wasn't a coven; this was a third-rate hippy selling hex bags to gullible idiots.

“Dean, wait!” Sam caught his arm, stopping him halfway to the Impala. “Where's Cas?”

The older Winchester looked back over his shoulder. The lights in Zaranya's Treasures had already gone out, leaving the little shop dark and silent. “I guess he's still in there.”

Sam's face creased with worry. “Dean...I saw some of the stuff Zaranya had in that book. I don't know how much of it she can actually practice, but she's got some nasty spells in there.”

“Nasty?” Dean studied the darkened storefront with a critical eye. “How nasty?”

“Like peel the flesh from your enemy's face nasty?”

“Yeah, that's nasty.”

“So...where's Cas?”

Dean sighed, pulling his gun out of his waistband and double-checking that he'd loaded the witch-killing bullets. “Guess we're looking for the back door.”

* * *

The cellar was dim, lit only by the candles on the altar and the burning ring of holy oil trapping the angel. Castiel felt torn between feelings of irritation and embarrassment—irritation at being trapped again, embarrassment that he would, once again, need someone's help to step out of a simple ring of fire.

“He doesn't look like much,” one of the witches complained. There were ten of them gathered, men and women, sitting or kneeling on cushions arranged around a defiled altar.

“Zaranya said the spell would only work on angels,” another, one of the men, replied. “Guess she knew what she was talking about.”

“Of course I did!” A shaft of light briefly filled the cellar as the door at the top of the stairs opened and the shop's proprietress sauntered down to join her coven. “And you'll notice the ward-work, Harry. Silences his voice, as well. He cannot call his angelic brethren or human allies for assistance.”

The junior witches murmured among themselves, some obviously impressed by Zaranya's words and others seeming annoyed at her bravado.

“Enough!” Zaranya clapped her hands, striding up to the defiled altar and lifting a few of the heavy necklaces she wore off of her neck to drape around the goat's skull at the center of the altar. “As I predicted, long ago, an angel is in our presence. That means our dark father thinks us ready for the next stage of our plan.”

The witches' voices rose again, but they slowly settled into position kneeling around the altar. Black hoods were produced, covering the faces of all but Zaranya as the senior witch took her place to stand at the altar. She had thrown off the outer layers of her clothing, and was now wearing a dark tank top that revealed the spiraling tattoos up her arms and across her chest.

“Baphomet!” Zaranya struck a match, lighting the candle perched on the top of the goat skull. “We beseech thee, our father, to reveal thyself to us in thy glory!”

The lesser witches repeated her words, slightly staggered until it was a constant, discordant chant. Zaranya stood in the middle, hands upraised, head tilted back, the light of the candle casting twisted shadows on her face.

“He hears us!” Zaranya announced. She lifted a goblet that had been placed in front of the skull. “My children, our father is with us!”

The witch chanted something over the goblet, and rune work lit up across the floor at her feet. Trapped by the holy fire, silenced by the warding, Castiel could do nothing to warn the lesser witches as the spell flared to life.

“Baphomet! We seek covenant with thee!” Zaranya intoned, lifting the goblet above her head.

Her attention faltered as the door at the top of the stairs shattered under the assault of the Winchester brothers. “Cas!” Dean started down the stairs, holding back a little at the sight of the woman standing in the middle of the pulsing circle of rune-work. “The hell?”

Zaranya grinned, uttered a word of power, and stomped one foot on the floor in the center of the circle. The other ten witches convulsed, light shooting out from under the dark hoods covering their faces as their bodies fell to the ground, dead, their souls pouring into the goblet Zaranya held aloft.

“You're too late,” Zaranya announced. “I have the souls of ten witches, the blood of an angel, and the idol of the Templars. My lord will walk the earth again and all will tremble before him.”

“Yeah, not today,” Dean retorted, pulling his gun free to plant a witch-killing bullet in her forehead. Zaranya chuckled, a small gesture with her head sending the hunters flying to opposite sides of the cellar.

“You're too late,” she said, replacing the goblet on the altar. “You're powerless, your angel is trapped, and I only need one more thing to bring my lord into this world.”

“Why all the petty stuff?” Sam asked, trying to stand though a glare from Zaranya had him slipping to the ground again. “The lotto tickets and the HOA?”

“I had to have witches,” Zaranya explained. “And once they'd gotten a taste and their souls had ripened, I had to keep them occupied until the final ingredient appeared. An angel.” She circled the ring of holy fire, eyes traveling up and down Castiel's body. “You don't look like much, but the spell wouldn't have triggered if you were an ordinary hunter.”

Castiel could do nothing but glare at her, the spell enforcing his silence. He could have told her that Baphomet had been no friend to humanity before he had been returned to hell (at Azazel's direction). The demon had sought nothing but chaos and bloodshed, including among his own followers.

“One final ingredient,” Zaranya repeated, lifting an ancient dagger from the altar.

“Cas!” While the witch had been distracted, Sam had managed to pull his jacket off and now tossed it toward the angel. The heavy canvas landed across the flames of the holy oil, smothering it enough for Castiel to escape the circle.

Zaranya screamed in rage and flew at him, dagger held high. Castiel easily blocked, though the witch's strength was enhanced by a spell or her link with the demon and she began to drive him back toward the holy oil.

He could feel the flames licking at his true form. Castiel feinted toward the witch, then spun the opposite way as she lunged forward with the dagger. This brought him away from the holy fire and, more importantly, brought Zaranya right in the path of Dean Winchester's witch-killing bullet.

“Cas!” Sam called again, climbing to his feet as the witch's body hit the floor. “Are you okay? Did she hurt you?”

“I'm fine,” Castiel assured the hunter, stalking over to the altar to break the spell holding the witches' souls.

“Damn,” Dean toed at one of the lesser witches' bodies, staring down at the hoods that covered their faces. “If you let the souls go, will they be okay?”

“No,” Castiel shook his head, hesitating a little as he held his angel blade across the goblet. “I'm afraid the spell...even if we could return the souls there's too much damage.” He dragged the tip of his blade through the nearly-invisible barrier trapping the spirits. The souls floated free for a moment, then disappeared.

At least that was what the mortal eye would have seen. Castiel had seen the reaper that collected them. She'd even given him a nod of thanks for stopping the summoning of Baphomet.

“Well, guess we can let Rowena know this is done,” Sam suggested. “I guess she was on to something after all, huh, Dean?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Shut up, Sammy,” he muttered, brushing dirt from the cellar off his coat. “Let's just get out of here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time, Day Three: Ten Angels a-Smiting


	3. Ten Angels a-Smiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Cas is attacked by a group of rogue angels, the Winchesters and Jack help him hatch a plan to trap these angels and send them back to heaven where they belong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, okay...little bit of Cas whump. Come on, I know you guys love it.
> 
> Remember, this is set in a vague AU of season 14 where Lucifer and Michael never left Apocalypse World. So Jack never lost his powers or his soul. 
> 
> (Sorry, life got in the way and I couldn't post this yesterday. Tried to make it a little longer to make up for it.)

The motel was a modest one, no tacky theme or attached roadhouse (which Dean preferred), on the other side of town from the organic grocery and vegan coffeehouse (which Sam preferred). Then again, Dean supposed he couldn't expect a couple of angels to pick a _sensible_ motel.

Dean rapped on the door, half-turning to study the parking lot as he heard movement and voices inside, then the door was eased open to reveal Jack's relieved face. “You came.”

He nodded at the kid, resting a hand on Jack's shoulder as he slipped into the room with Sam on his heels. “Hey, Cas, how you holding up?”

The angel grunted, trying to straighten in the room's single armchair. “I'll be all right.” Cas's coat and jacket were thrown over one end of the double bed, his shirt open to reveal the bloodstained bandages wrapped around his chest and stomach. A cut over one eye had been stitched and taped together, and when Dean crouched down to get a closer look he was relieved to see that the kid's stitch work had gotten better.

“So what happened?” Sam asked, setting his backpack on the table to pull his laptop out. “Jack said you ran into angels?”

“Yes,” Cas tried to twist away from Dean's probing fingers, but the wounds were severe enough that he couldn't simply throw the hunter off. “I believe they have been warded against Heaven, or else Naomi would have called them back.”

“Yeah, or maybe they're ignoring her,” Dean replied, smoothing a bandage back down in satisfaction. The kid was getting pretty good at this kind of thing.

It was just a shame Jack had so many opportunities to practice.

“I don't think so,” Cas said. Dean helped him sit up straight, packing the pillows from the bed around him to support the angel's wounded vessel. “There were at least eight of them, Dean. That's almost the same number in Heaven, Naomi would have mentioned it if so many were still roaming the earth.”

“Unless she was lying.”

Cas looked away, throat flexing as he swallowed. Dean still couldn't believe that bitch was alive and in charge of things upstairs. With everything she'd done to Cas, he wanted nothing more than to gank her once and for all.

“Okay, I've got a report on some strange deaths,” Sam called from the table. He spun his laptop around, a few articles from the local paper on the screen. “Officials are calling it radiation.”

Dean nodded, studying the coroner's report Sam had also dug up. Eye sockets burned, internal organs practically melted...classic signs of an angelic smiting. “Any leads?”

“They've closed off the area,” Sam replied, turning his laptop back around to click through a few more screens. “No sign of radiation, but the official word is they're waiting on the CDC to fully investigate.”

“Look,” Jack ran over to the wall to gesture to the map he and Cas had pinned there. “We were tracing the path, we think the angels are on the move.”

Dean walked up next to the kid, studying the map. The little x's marking each victim almost seemed to follow the state route through this part of the country. “So, what...they're smiting whoever gets in their way?”

“They'd think they were justified,” Cas replied. His voice was still tight with pain, but Dean was relieved to see a little more color in the angel's face. “To most angels humanity is just a parasite. 'Eating, drinking, screwing their way to the death of the planet'.”

Jack made a face. “Simeon said that right before he stabbed Cas,” he explained. “I think he was mad that we didn't see things the same way.”

Dean rolled his eyes. Angels. Well, not all of them, of course. There was Cas, of course, and Jack half-counted. Some of the others hadn't been so bad. But most of them. They could go to hell.

“Whoa,” Sam sat up straighter, glancing up from his computer to catch Dean's eye. “There's another body. About fifteen miles west of here.”

“Right,” Dean nodded, patting his jacket to make sure his angel blade was in place. “Let's go.”

“Dean!” Cas lunged up from the chair to snag Dean's sleeve, nearly dragging the hunter back as Cas was still weak from his injuries. “Dean...don't kill them.”

Dean gently pulled Cas's fingers loose and eased the angel back into the chair. “We can't just let them go, Cas.”

“I know,” Cas looked away, pain etched across his features, though Dean suspected it was more mental than physical at this point. “Heaven is in danger of failing, Dean. We need all the angels we can get.”

“So...what?” Dean folded his arms, unaware that he was essentially looming over his injured and vulnerable friend. “You want us to reward these dicks with a return ticket home?”

Cas shook his head, meeting Dean's eyes only for a second before looking away. Dean tried to consciously soften his posture, sliding his hands into his pockets and resting back on one heel. Cas was usually the impenetrable badass, but there were little moments like this that reminded him of all the traumas his friend had faced. Traumas brought back up front, no doubt, by the brutal beating he'd sustained at the hands of his so-called brothers.

“Heaven would be no reward for these angels,” Cas finally said. “They've warded themselves against their own kind. They're moving away from the only open gate to Heaven. Trust me, Dean, they would consider oblivion to be a far preferable fate to whatever Naomi might have in store.”

It was Dean's turn to look away. Cas had never really explained everything that happened with Naomi, though Sam and Dean had picked up bits and pieces along the way. Cas still wouldn't meet his eye, so Dean crouched to be below his level. “All right, man,” he said, resting one hand on Cas's knee. “What's the plan?”

Finally, _finally_ the angel looked at him. “We contact Heaven. Have them temporarily open a gate along Simeon's travel path. Then we can trap them and easily turn them over.”

“Trap them how?” Dean frowned. He knew where this was going, and there was no way in hell.

“With bait,” Cas struggled against the chair, trying to heave himself up to his feet. “The kind they won't be able to resist.”

“Whoa, buddy, no way,” Dean rested his hands on Cas's shoulders and pushed him back down into the chair. The hunter looked around the room for support—Sam had his head down behind his laptop, obviously trying to stay out of the argument (thanks, Sammy). Jack was hovering on the other side of Cas's chair, face creased up in concern.

“They won't go after you, Dean. Or Sam.” Cas was tense under Dean's hands, obviously set on throwing himself back into the line of fire. “The only reason they let me live was because they were afraid of Jack's powers. If they think I'm alone...”

“No,” Dean stood back, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Dammit, Cas, would you listen to yourself? This isn't a plan: this is suicide.”

“I trust you, Dean.”

Well, shit. The angel's unwavering faith in his human family always made something tighten in Dean's chest. Like a combination of affection and awe...that a millennia-old being of celestial power would willing place his life in the hands of a single, flawed hunter who broke more things than he fixed. “This is a bad idea,” Dean finally said, his voice colored with defeat.

“But it's the only one we have,” Cas nodded. “I'll need some time to communicate with Duma.”

* * *

It did make sense, in a way. Sam and Dean were still warded against angels and Jack could mask his own presence...but that didn't mean Dean had to like it. Even now, on the road to some out-of-the-way corner of Iowa in the middle of the night, he was wracking his brain for another solution.

Cas had slowly been regaining strength as they traveled, but he hadn't cleaned the blood off his coat or healed the bruises on his face. Dean knew that was only to make the angel appear more vulnerable, but it was one more thing he didn't like about this plan.

“You're sure Duma's gonna be there?” Dean asked.

Cas gave a sigh, staring out the passenger window of the Impala at the darkened landscape. “Yes, Dean. They want these angels back in heaven even more than we do.”

Dean grunted in reply, checking his mirrors to make sure Sam and Jack were still behind them in Cas's truck. “I don't like this.”

“So you have said.”

“I'm serious, Cas.”

Cas shifted in the seat, and in his peripheral vision Dean could tell that the angel was watching him. “This is the most expedient option, Dean,” he said, his voice all soothing and rational, which only pissed Dean off more. “We might have come up with another plan if we had more time, but if they're killing innocent humans we have to stop them.”

“That doesn't make it a good plan.”

The angel gave a half-nod in confirmation. “We are so rarely afforded the opportunity for _good_ plans.”

That made Dean give a snort of laughter. Wasn't that the truth? “All right, how much farther?”

“The turn for the park is in eight miles,” Cas clicked on a flashlight to study the map he and Sam had been working on. “It's close enough to their projected trajectory that Simeon should answer my challenge.”

Dean shook his head, steering the Impala around a slower vehicle. The plan sucked. Find a gate to heaven in Simeon's path and lure his little gang there, yeah, that was solid. But the lure?

Castiel challenging Simeon to single combat to avenge his honor.

Of course, half of this was banking on Simeon accepting the challenge (Cas had assured them an angel as prideful as Simeon would), and even further agreeing to single combat and not just setting all his little minions on Cas at once like he had last time.

“Dean.”

Cas's voice broke Dean out of his dark train of thought. “I know, Cas, but I don't like it.”

“I'll be fine.”

Dean shook his head, finally pulling down the side road that would take them to the little park. It technically closed at dusk, but that really only meant they shut the lights off and the sheriff drove through once or twice during the night. “Here we go,” Dean muttered under his breath as he turned the car off and followed Cas out into the field.

The park wasn't exactly what Dean had been picturing. It was literally just a picnic pavilion that was closed on two sides and two open fields...no jungle gyms, no barbecue grills. The far side of the park may have lead down to a little river, but that was in total darkness. “The gate to heaven is here?” Dean asked, checking around the corners of the pavilion with his flashlight.

“Nearby,” Cas replied, as Sam and Jack joined them under the meager shelter. “The three of you should hide yourselves. I will contact Simeon.”

“Hang on,” Dean grabbed Cas by the arm as the angel turned away. “I thought Duma was gonna be here? Isn't she helping?”

Cas sighed. “We cannot risk Simeon sensing any other angels. Jack will pray to Duma when the time is right and she will join us to take Simeon and his followers into custody.”

“And you didn't tell me this part?”

“Because you'd do this, Dean,” Sam interjected. “Come on, we don't have much time.”

Grumbling, Dean followed Sam and Jack into the back corner of the pavilion. Cas had walked out into the middle of the field, so he wasn't in their direct line-of-sight, which made Dean even more uneasy.

And now it was the waiting. Crouched along the wall, half-hidden by the picnic tables someone had stacked up earlier that day, ears straining against any noise. He could picture Cas in his mind...standing straight but with his shoulders hunched over, hands shoved in his pockets as though to hide their shaking. He knew the angel wasn't that badly injured anymore—for all Cas liked to complain about not needing human medicine, it was actually useful for some of the celestial wounds. Seeing Cas that vulnerable, though—even _pretending_ to be that vulnerable—made Dean's stomach twist up uncomfortably.

“Simeon!”

Cas's voice echoed across the field. Dean looked back at Sammy, who gave a nod, then to Jack, who was staring out into the darkness with wide eyes.

“Cas. Ti. El.” Simeon's voice was a sneer, punctuating each syllable of Cas's name as though it was something filthy in his mouth. “I thought you'd seen enough of us.”

Dean could almost hear the glower Cas was sending to the rogue angel. “I have come to ask for satisfaction.”

“Oh, I know. But why should I give it?”

“You're here, aren't you?”

“Only because you didn't learn your lesson,” Simeon retorted. “Did we go too easy on you, Castiel? You, with the blood of thousands of our kind on your hands...did you really think you didn't deserve everything we gave you?”

There was an infuriating silence, and Dean would have charged out to kill Simeon with his bare hands, plan be damned, except Sam had a grip on his sleeve and held him back.

“I thought you were seeking repentance,” Simeon continued. His voice was softer now, almost gentle, and it made Dean's gut curdle. Like Simeon was trying to convince their angel that Cas not only deserved the beating he'd gotten, but should be grateful for it.

“Enough!” Cas's voice was sharp, strong, and defiant. “I asked for single combat, Simeon. Or can you do nothing without your flock?”

Simeon's laugh was cold, malicious. “Oh, you asked Castiel. That doesn't mean I have to answer in kind.”

That was it. Before his ears had even properly registered the first blow Dean was out of cover, sprinting toward the battle in the middle of the field. The angels were indistinct shapes in the darkness, but a lifetime of hunting had honed Dean's night vision. Angel blade in hand, he barreled toward the closest angel and slashed the dagger across the back of the angel's legs. Hamstring severed, the angel collapsed to the ground with a scream of pain.

“Liar!” Simeon roared, and now Dean could see Simeon for himself. He was wearing some poor bastard in a turtleneck and ponytail, like one of those TED guys he caught Sam watching every now and then.

Speaking of Sam. The younger Winchester had taken advantage of the chaos of the fight to pick the lock on the park's electric controls and flipped on the floodlights, illuminating the field. Now Dean could see that there were ten rogue angels, including the one he'd hamstrung, and though Cas was holding his own he still wouldn't be a match for nine in his state.

“Don't hurt him!” Jack yelled, and the nephilim was in the fight now. Dean barely noticed Jack holding one hand out, eyes burning yellow, catching two angels in his fury and holding them in place.

Dean was heading for Simeon.

“You said single combat, Castiel!” Simeon said, locking blades with Cas and trying to knee him in the side—where one of Simeon's little dicks had carved Cas up earlier, but thanks to Jack the slashes had been stitched and bound and had mended more quickly than a traditional angel blade wound. “How dare you!”

“Yeah, and you brought all your little friends,” Dean retorted, going in with an overhand swipe that Simeon dodged by breaking away from Cas and dancing back.

“I did not make the challenge, I am not held to the rules of honor,” Simeon sneered. He waved a hand and his power slammed into Dean's chest, knocking the hunter back a few yards.

Winded, Dean rolled to his feet and pulled himself up, stowing his angel blade in favor of his gun. Jack had his other hand out, pinning a third angel in place, but it was wearing on the kid. Probably took more concentration to hold the bastards in place instead of just crushing them.

Sam had joined the fight now and was circling around the other edge of the group. None of the angels had taken vessels that were particularly tall, so the gigantor Winchester had reach on all of them. He wasn't crippling them as much as trying to drive them back, keep them all in one place.

But Simeon had Cas on the ground now.

Dean gave a shout and sprinted back to the fight, catching two more angels with angel bullets (in the knee and hip respectively—not deadly, but those bastards weren't walking anywhere soon). That was six down, between Dean and Jack, and Sam was holding two at bay, which left Simeon and another angel with Cas.

Another angel that thrust his blade through Cas's arm, pinning it to the ground. Cas gave a cry and writhed against the pain, leaving his face and chest open for brutal strikes from Simeon's fists. The second angel yanked on Cas's hair to pull his face close, bending down to whisper something in Cas's ear as Simeon tore at Cas's clothing.

Whatever the angel said, Cas gave another cry and tried to throw his tormentors off, but Simeon was already tracing his angel blade down the bare skin of Cas's chest and stomach.

Dean took aim and fired, round after round thudding into Simeon's back. He didn't care if he killed the bastard at this point—nine angels would have to be good enough. Brilliant light flared out of Simeon's open eyes and mouth, and his vessel toppled onto Castiel's immobile form, wings burning to ash in the cold light of the floodlights.

“Dean!” Sam sounded scandalized, but Dean ignored him and tackled the second bastard, the one who'd pinned Cas with an angel blade. The angel was shocked at the death of Simeon, so much so that when Dean yanked his own angel blade free and tucked the end under the bastard's neck he yielded without so much as struggle.

“Cas?” Dean called over his shoulder.

“I'm...” Cas grunted. “I need some assistance.”

“Right,” Dean shook his head. “What's your name?” he demanded of the angel under his blade.

“J-Joash.”

“Well, Joash, here's what we're gonna do. You're gonna sit here with your hands on your head like a good little boy, and I'm not gonna shoot your knees out with angel bullets. Got it?”

Joash nodded, trembling. “Simeon said...he said...”

Dean pressed the blade in a little closer, drawing a bead of blood. “I don't care.” He waited a moment until Joash nodded again, looking cowed this time, and left the angel sitting cross-legged on the ground with his hands resting on top of his head.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean stowed his blade and gun and knelt beside his friend, heaving Simeon's body off. “You okay?”

Cas grunted again, shooting Dean a glare. “You killed him.”

Dean shrugged. “He had it coming.” Cas's face and chest were mottled with new bruises, and one of the slashes on his side from the earlier fight was bleeding again. “Come on, let's get you up and call Duma.”

He tugged the blade free from Cas's arm, wincing in sympathy when the angel let out a pained whine. Dean slid his own arm behind Cas's shoulders and gently leveraged his friend up to a sitting position, where he could see the full extent of the damage.

It looked like Cas had only taken a few more bruises, plus the wound in his arm, but now Dean could see that the back of the angel's coat was torn as well, bloody skin peering out through the ragged fabric. “You good, Cas?”..

Cas let out a sigh and slumped against Dean, content to let the hunter take his weight for the moment. “I will be.”

“Right.” Dean looked up to where Sam and Jack had corralled the rest of the angels—they'd lost some of their fight when their leader was killed—and gave a quick nod. Jack closed his eyes, face pinched in concentration.

“Duma should be able to open a one-time doorway here,” Sam said, kneeling next to Cas for his own check of the angel's injuries. “She's not gonna be happy you killed Simeon, Dean.”

“Yeah, well, I'm not happy I didn't kill all of them, Sammy.”

Cas let out a huff. “Dean.”

“What? Angels are dicks!” He punctuated his words with a gentle hug around Cas's shoulders. “Present company excluded, of course. Most of the time.”

* * *

In the end, Dean had been afraid Duma would pull some stunt and try to take Cas with her, but she seemed to know that was a lost cause. She had been displeased that there were only nine angels, not ten, but a quick reminder that they didn't need to send _any_ back to heaven had calmed her down.

“So. Nine more angels,” Dean commented. Cas was sitting on the tailgate of his truck as Sam tended to his wounds, and Jack had taken half a bottle of aspirin and gone to lie down in the back seat of the Impala (apparently expending so much power followed by angel radio had given the kid a helluva migraine).

“It should provide a significant support to the rest of Heaven,” Cas replied, wincing a little as Sam dabbed antiseptic on the stab wound in his upper arm. “I just wish we could have captured Simeon as well.”

“Cas...”

“But considering he was going to carve my grace out through my stomach I suppose I am relieved he is dead.”

Dean felt a little sick at this. He hadn't heard what Joash and Simeon had been saying to Cas, while the others were battling the Winchesters and Jack, but that was a horrific thought. “Sorry, man”

Cas gave a half-shrug, careful to hold his injured arm steady as Sam wrapped gauze around the wound. “I suppose I should be used to the hatred of my own kind.”

“No, man,” Sam spoke up, easing Cas's arm down and sitting down on the tailgate next to him. “No, that's not something you need to just get used to. That's their problem, not yours.”

“Sam,” Cas shook his head, eyes down so he couldn't see either Winchester. “You know what I've done is unpardonable.”

“Yeah, well, they've done worse,” Dean retorted, sitting down on Cas's other side. “Come on, man, you can't believe that...you can't really believe all that crap Simeon was saying? About penance?”

Cas folded his hands in his lap and stared down at his interlocked fingers. “Not always.”

Dean sighed. “This job, man. Sometimes it just gets to you. What you've done, the people you couldn't save.”

The angel shook his head. “I'm not a hunter, Dean.”

“Sure you are,” Dean patted Cas on the knee. “Sure, maybe your people skills still need work, but we wouldn't want anyone else in our corner. Right, Sammy?”

“You're one of us, Cas,” Sam said, wrapping an arm around Cas's shoulders. “Nothing's gonna change that.”

“Yeah,” Dean patted Cas's knee again. “You're a Winchester. Like it or not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jack couldn't heal Cas because... *throws handful of glitter in the air and flees while you're distracted*
> 
> Divorce sucks. 0/10 would not recommend. Then again mental abuse sucks worse, so it's a lose-lose situation.
> 
> Next time: Nine Demons Stabbing
> 
> "It's Christmas! Come on, Winchester, can't we have a little fun?"


	4. Nine Demons Stabbing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's Christmas! Come on, Winchester, can't we have a little fun?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's short and it kinda sucks...I was trying to write funny after the last few days. Oh well. At least I did it?

Pendleton College (more of a trade school, really) opened its central courtyard every year for a community winter festival. The choir sang Christmas songs, students and local townsfolk opened stalls for food and handmade gifts, and the college raffled off items donated for the event to raise money for the children's hospital.

It was exactly like something out of one of those made-for-TV Christmas movies...except, of course, for the nine demons hiding among the crowd.

“Can't you spot them?” Dean complained to Cas, who was studying the crowd intently.

“They have yet to show themselves,” Cas replied. “Sam?”

“No luck,” Sam pocketed his phone. “This is Pendleton's biggest event of the year, the sheriff won't shut it down. Not even for seven dead.”

Dean snorted. “Are we sure he's not one of the demons?”

“He wasn't earlier today,” Sam shrugged. “Guess we do this the hard way.”

Seven bodies, each bearing nine stab wounds, had been discovered in the days leading up to the festival. While the bodies themselves showed no sign of demonic possession, the sulfur at the crime scenes had pointed to demons as the culprits.

Demons with no apparent agenda or higher orders. Just...killing for fun. At Christmas.

“All right, I'll take the market stalls,” Dean offered. “Sammy, check out the carolers. Cas, get to high ground and give a signal if you spot anything.”

“Wait,” Sam grabbed his brother by the arm. “I have a better idea.”

The taller Winchester easily wove his way through the crowd to the raffle stage, where the mayor was just climbing the steps to start drawing the winners. “Excuse me,” Sam held his badge up. “Agent Page, FBI. I just need to make a quick announcement.”

The mayor was startled, but took a few steps back. “Oh, of course. I, uh...is everything all right?”

“Just the usual word of the season,” Sam reassured him, tapping the microphone to test it. He winced at the feedback, swallowing back a bit of nervousness as a few people in the crowd glanced his way. “Excuse me? Could I have your attention?” he called.

The crowd was beginning to stare at him. The carolers had paused their singing, the vendors weren't hawking their wares, and most of the conversations had faded away.

“Thanks,” Sam tried to smile, but having so many eyes on him was disconcerting. “I'd just, uh...like to say a prayer, before we continue tonight.” A discontented murmur swept through the crowd, and the mayor behind Sam made a half-hearted protest. “It's just an old blessing...for the season. To, you know...bring peace on earth.”

He cleared his throat and locked eyes with Cas for a moment. The angel seemed to understand and gave a slight nod, nudging Dean to turn his attention to the gathered crowd.

“Right,” Sam shifted, rubbing his hands together, then stretched one hand out over the crowd as though giving a benediction. “ _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus_...”

There. Four of the festival-goers spasmed, hands clapping over their ears. Dean and Cas were pushing their way through, and Sam raised his voice so it was booming over the loudspeaker.

“ _Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii...”_ one of the demons smoked out, the meatsuit collapsing to the cobblestone. Someone in the crowd screamed.

Well, it was working. The demons that could still move were pushing their way to the stage, the innocent civilians were running the opposite direction, and Dean and Cas were behind the demons with their weapons drawn.

Except there were only seven.

Sam let out a shout of surprise as someone grabbed him from behind and hoisted him into the air, throwing him out over the crowd to crash into a decorative bench.

“You just couldn't leave it alone,” the mayor snarled. “The one time of year we let our hair down, and you had to muck it all up.”

“Hey, jackass,” Dean shouted, shouldering his way up to Sam's side. “It's eight against three. You've got no chance of winning here. Why don't you go to hell—literally.”

The mayor's face twisted in a sneer. “Tristram was always a coward. You'll never be a match for us, Winchester.”

Dean and Sam looked at each other. “He's right,” Sam shrugged, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, you win...I guess.”

“Yeah,” Dean held his arms out. “Come and get us.”

They stood for a half second more as the demons hesitated, then took off for the alley at the far end of the green. Behind them they could hear the mayor hollering at his minions to go after them, and the very obvious sound of one pissed-off angel of the lord scaring the demons away from the fleeing crowd.

The alley, of course, was a dead end. Sam ran into the wall theatrically, slapping his hands on the painted stone. “I think we're trapped, Dean,” he called.

Dean swore. Loudly, colorfully, and with extra adjectives.

“Dude. Come on. Leave Rudolph out of this,” Sam scolded. “Oh, what will we do?” he shouted.

“They're down here!”

One of the demons rounded the corner, five more hot on his heels. Sam exchanged a resigned look with his brother—six was better than nothing—and just waited as the demons charged.

And stopped halfway.

“Oh, that's right,” Dean exclaimed, slapping a hand to his forehead. “We did a little decorating earlier, didn't we Sammy?”

“Devil's traps are so festive,” Sam replied, deadpan.

“Yeah, so...stay,” Dean pointed at the snarling demons as he side-stepped around them. “We'll be back for you.”

They left stunt demons 2-7 in the devil's trap and hurried back to the main square, where Cas was facing off with the two remaining demons.

“Cas!” Sam called, tugging the demon blade out of his belt.

“The mayor is still alive, Sam!” Cas called back. “I'm afraid the social worker is gone.”

Sam dove at the mayor while Dean took an angel blade after the social worker.

“Winchester!” the mayor snarled. “I should have known!”

Sam nearly rolled his eyes again. Why were demons always so offended that they'd been hunted down? It seemed the only decent thing to do—who was just going to let something like this go after they'd murdered at least seven people (more than seven, including the dead meatsuits).

The mayor raised his hand to fling Sam across the courtyard, but Cas was on him in a second. The angel wrapped both arms around the mayor's upper arms, pinning them to his sides, and wrestled him back and off his feet. “Sam! I can't hold him forever!”

“Right,” Sam shoved the demon blade back in his belt and fumbled for the flask of holy water. He splashed some over the mayor, earning a few shrieks from the demon, and started the exorcism over.

In his peripheral vision, he saw Dean end his fight with the social worker with a well-placed stab to the chest. It was a shame about the meatsuit...but maybe they could still save a few of the other victims.

“It's Christmas!” the demon in the mayor whined as Sam paused for a moment. “Come on, Winchester, can't we have a little fun?”

Sam glared down at the black-eyed creature, grinning up at him with borrowed features. “ _Benedictus Deus. Gloria Patri._ ”

The mayor threw back his head and screamed, black smoke pouring out of his mouth to burrow into the earth, thrust back to the depths of hell. The mayor's body went limp in Cas's arms, though the angel's relieved expression showed the man himself was still alive.

“That's three down,” Dean announced cheerfully. “Feel like another exorcism, Sammy?”

Sam groaned, rubbing his shoulder where he'd collided with the bench earlier. “I think it's your turn, Dean.”

“Aww, but you love this stuff,” Dean cajoled, helping Cas ease the mayor down on one of the nearby benches. “I'd hate to take it away from you. And at Christmas, no less.”

“Dean...”

“What? Come on, you know you want to.”

Sam let out a sigh and turned to traipse back to the alley. The sooner this was finished, the sooner they could dispose of the bodies and go home. “You owe me one."

“Hey,” Dean held his hands out, face split in a grin. “Merry Christmas, bitch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews, as always, are deeply appreciated! I hope you're having a peaceful holiday season.
> 
> Next time: Eight Goats a-Gobbling
> 
> "With everything we've seen, Dean, why are you finding a Joulupukki so hard to believe?"


	5. Eight Goats a-Gobbling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "With everything we've seen, Dean, why are you finding a Joulupukki so hard to believe?"

“What. The. Hell.”

The room was totaled. Dean Winchester could only stare from the open cupboard (shelves pulled down and half-eaten packages strewn across the room), to the tree (presents chewed open and eaten through, including half an iPad that sparked pitifully in the corner), to the stockings hanging from the mantle (unraveled into little more than bits of tinsel).

“I told you it was a weird one,” Jules commented. “What sort of thing causes this much chaos?”

The other hunter had called back to the bunker for backup when her case took a strange turn. It had started with a string of break-ins, by something that just ate half the pantry and left. Then trees were knocked over, decorations destroyed, and now presents...eaten?

“Any witnesses?” Sam asked, stepping gingerly around the shattered remains of a ceramic Santa Claus.

“Couple of traumatized kids,” Jules said. “Said it was Krampus.”

“Krampus.”

At Sam's incredulous look, Jules raised her hands. “That's what they said.”

“Yeah, but Krampus doesn't do this,” Sam commented. “He punishes children directly, he doesn't eat their presents.”

Jules was staring at him. Sam shifted awkwardly, glancing over to Dean for help. “Are you saying Krampus is real?”

“Well, we haven't killed him,” Dean commented as he crouched down to study the bottom of the tree. “Sam, check this out.”

Relieved, Sam turned away from Jules to study the branches Dean was pointing out. “What is it?”

“Look at the teeth here.”

Sam edged in closer, careful to steer clear of the sap beading out of the broken branch. “Yeah?”

“They're flat. Like a cow, or...or a horse or something. Not a carnivore.”

“You're right,” Sam pulled his phone out to snap a picture. “So we have some kind of Christmas-hating herbivore breaking into houses to...what?”

Dean shrugged. He released the branch, frowned at the sap on his hand, and wiped his hand on Sam's sleeve. Ignoring his brother's protest, Dean picked his way back over to Jules. “Have any reports of missing livestock lately?”

“As a matter of fact,” Jules' eyes went wide and she tugged her own phone out of her pocket. “Yeah, here it is. Farmer said eight of his herd went missing.”

“Herd of what?”

* * *

“Of course I've heard of goats!”

Jermaine Parker, fingers hooked through his own suspenders, laughed uproariously at his own joke. “Oh, them fellers just took a bite out of the fence and wandered off one day.”

Sam tried to smile, but it came out as more of a grimace. “Do they often...wander away like that?” He had to step to the side to shoo another goat away from the hem of his coat. Dean had cheated. He had cheated at rock-paper-scissors, somehow, and that was why he was back at the hotel looking up lore about “Christmas goats” while Sam and Cas were stuck at the Parker farm.

At least Cas had it even worse than Sam. Most animals seemed to have a sense of reverence around the angel (except cats, of course), but these goats were...well...Cas was trying very hard not to smite them.

“Well,” Parker scratched his beard, calloused fingers rasping through the tangled mess, and considered Sam's question. “Not usually. These fellas always seemed to happy, too. Miss Kirsi loved to feed 'em and talk to 'em.”

“Miss Kirsi?”

“She lives across the street,” Parker gestured. “Think she's at work right now, but she might know something. Hey, why's the FBI so interested in a few missin' goats?”

“Sam! They won't let go of my coat!”

Sam flashed another quick smile, avoiding the question by wading into the herd to rescue Cas.

* * *

“The Yule Goat?” Sam asked, bitch-face firmly in place, when he and Cas returned to the hotel room.

Dean propped his feet up on the table and took a long pull from his beer. “Hey, you said it yourself, dude has eight missing.”

“Yeah, but...these are just ordinary goats, Dean.”

“You sure about that?” Dean asked, gesturing to Cas. The angel shot him his version of the bitch-face (which was somehow both more comical and more threatening than Sam's...angels, man, who knew?).

Because if they weren't supernatural, Dean was interested in hearing just how a herd of _normal_ goats managed to incapacitate an _angel of the lord_ and chew fist-sized holes in his trench coat.

“Well, this is interesting,” Jules interjected. “I mean, not that your family drama isn't interesting. But this, for the _case_ , is interesting.”

Dean grinned. He knew he'd liked Jules. She was sassy. “What'cha got?”

“Seems the Krampus idea might not be too far off base. I was checking in on the families that have been broken into...kids are all on the naughty list.”

“Naughty list?” Sam leaned over her shoulder.

“Yeah, it's something their school does. Kids who have been good all year get a little extra gift at Christmas. Bad kids just get the usual treat bag. Well, until this year.”

“What happened this year?” Dean asked, dropping his feet to the floor to lean forward.

“Some mom complained, said it wasn't fair that all the kids didn't get the same gift. So even though their teacher was tracking this naughty list, she had to buy gifts for all the kids and not just the good ones.”

“Who's the teacher?” Sam asked, pulling out a notebook.

“Ah...Korhonen. Kirsi Korhonen.”

“Kirsi?” Sam stared at Jules, brow creased in thought.

“Yeah, see?” Jules angled the laptop toward him so Sam could see the teacher's profile clearly. “Not an easy name for the kids to pronounce.”

“Her address is right across the street from the Parker farm,” Sam commented.

Dean waited for his brother to explain, and when Sam just commandeered Jules' laptop he gave an impatient sigh. “So?”

“Oh, so Parker said a Miss Kirsi liked to feed his goats,” Sam explained, eyes still glued to the laptop screen. So if it's the same woman....”

“We've got unhappy teacher with a naughty list and access to demon goats,” Dean finished.

“They weren't demonic, Dean,” Cas protested.

“No?” Dean raised his eyebrows. “How did they bite you between your shoulder blades?”

Cas huffed and folded his arms, looking across the room. “They were merely excitable. I'm an angel, no doubt they've never encountered one of my kind.”

“Anyway,” Sam finished typing something and spun the computer around with a dramatic flourish.

Dean squinted at the screen. “No way I'm pronouncing that.”

Sam shot him another bitch-face. “The Joulupukki. In Finland it's kind of merged with Santa Claus and goes around from house to house giving gifts to good children.”

“Come on, Sammy,” Dean stretched back wincing as his back popped. Damn, he was getting old. “I'm supposed to believe some nice goat gives presents to good kids and eats the presents of bad kids?”

“With everything we've seen, Dean, why are you finding a Joulupukki so hard to believe?” Sam griped. “But I'm not talking about that, I'm talking about what it came from.” Sam pulled the computer back to face him, hit a few more keys, and turned it around again.

Dean glared at him. “No.”

Sam huffed out a sigh of annoyance. “The Nuuttipukki were evil spirits that would go door to door demanding gifts and leftovers from the Yule feast. In rituals they were represented by men wear masks with goat horns, and there are still some places where goat masks and disguises are a traditional part of the seasonal celebrations.”

“Yeah, but these aren't eating leftovers,” Dean pointed out. “They're taking the whole feast.”

“And Yule doesn't start for five days,” Cas added, sitting down in the chair next to Sam, trench coat finally repaired. “I believe someone has twisted this tradition for their own benefit.”

Dean snorted. “Ya think, Cas?”

“Yes, I do,” Cas nodded gravely. “I don't believe we're actually dealing with a Nuuttipukki. Someone has bewitched these goats.”

Dean smirked and started to make another reply, but Jules took her laptop back from Sam and clicked through the pages. “There's one way to find out,” she suggested. “One kid on this list hasn't been hit.”

* * *

“Man, stakeouts are the worst,” Dean complained.

Castiel chose to remain silent, having had similar arguments with his human friend many times in the past. It was better just to let Dean have his say and enjoy the short peace that followed.

“So how do we kill a Nutty-pucky anyway?”

“Nuuttipukki,” Castiel corrected.

“Yeah, whatever,” Dean waved one hand. “How do we kill it?”

“We still don't know if it is one.”

“We still don't know it _isn't_.”

Castiel sighed and chose silence, again. He never understood what pleasure Dean derived from circular discussions.

“Evergreen stake?”

“Dean!”

Dean held his hands up, leaning back in his seat. “Sam and Jules got the easy part,” he said after a few moments. “Staking out the teacher's house.”

“I'm sure they're in the exact same predicament we are.”

The hunter snorted and was silent for a few more moments. Castiel stared out the window at the darkened house, almost mentally counting down the seconds to his friend's next outburst.

“Why goats?”

Castiel felt a twitch of impatience, but tried to smother it down. He was millennia old. He was a soldier. He had fought through the ranks of hell itself to rescue the Righteous Man. He would not send Dean Winchester into a deep sleep for a few moments of peace.

“I mean I'd understand if it were geese, those things are pure evil. But what did goats do to get such a bad reputation?”

“Dean!”

“Cas!” Dean grabbed him by the arm, pointing past him to the darkened house. “Movement!”

Castiel was not relieved to be out of the car and slipping silently along the darkened streets to intercept the intruder. Dean had not been treading on the thin edge of the angel's remaining patience after a humiliating encounter with livestock, and Castiel was not eager for something on which he could unleash his frustrations.

Were he human, though, he might have said it was close.

Dean patted his left shoulder as he passed, to signify the hunter was circling around the far side of the house. Castiel nodded, even though Dean was already beyond line-of-sight, and pressed himself against the wall of the house to inch closer to the back.

There was the rustle of movement, the sharp sound of glass shattering, and the odd susurration of eight goats waiting to be set loose on the Carter family home.

Castiel felt the call more than he heard it in his mind, springing around the corner at the same time as Dean to trap Kirsi Korhonen between them.

“Son of a bitch!” Dean cursed, flashlight illuminating an old man in suspenders, beard caked with an unknown amount of filth. “Who the hell are you?”

“Jermaine Parker,” Castiel answered, leveling a glare at the farmer. “What brings you out here at this hour?”

Parker hesitated, looking between them with a shocked expression. Then the old man pulled out a dagger and lunged at Dean with a scream.

Dean retaliated, his gun loaded with witch-killing bullets that ended the old man's life before he even got within arm's reach of Dean.

“Well, that was...something,” Dean commented, rolling the dead body over. “Guess he had his own naughty list.”

Castiel was mostly ignoring his human friend, his attention firmly on the goats.

The eight goats now freed from the witch's control.

The eight goats who were just as excitable as their brethren at the farm.

The eight goats who had never seen an angel before.

* * *

“So it turns out Kirsi would complain to old man Parker when she was visiting his goats,” Sam explained, gently pressing an ice pack against the rising bump on Cas's head. “He heard all about her troubles with school, and she'd talked about the folk legends her family told her, so he decided to get a little payback for her.”

“Kirsi's family is from Finland,” Jules said. She was looking helplessly at the handful of scraps of trench coat Dean had managed to pry away from the goats. “I'm sorry, Cas, I don't know if this can be fixed.”

“Home of the Nutty-pucky,” Dean interjected jovially. He had his feet up on the table, beer in hand, scrolling through a takeout menu on the laptop. “How does Chinese sound?”

Sam resisted the urge to call his brother a few choice names in Mandarin, and turned his attention back to Cas. “I think Parker was trying to seduce Kirsi, but she wasn't interested. Probably thought taking care of her problem would bring her to his side.”

“What will happen to his farm?” Cas asked, eyeing the holes in his pants with an air of disgust.

“His stepson,” Jules answered. “Turns out the kid was first in line to takeover, just waiting for the old man to kick the bucket. Wants to make it a petting zoo.”

Sam bit back a smile when Cas shuddered. “Maybe leave the goats out of it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies to anyone from Finland or of Finnish descent, I hope I handled the Yule Goat traditions all right. It was very interesting to research! I really wanted a different animal tied to Santa Claus for this chapter, something other than reindeer, and reading about the Joulupukki and Nuttipukki was really fun (no, I can't pronounce it either). 
> 
> Next time: Seven Swans a-Skating
> 
> "I tell you, Sammy, ice skaters. They're like ballerinas...but with knives."


	6. Seven Swans a-Skating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I tell you, Sammy, ice skaters. They're like ballerinas...but with knives."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had completely forgotten the princess in Swan Lake was named Odette until I started this chapter. So it's kinda like a fun little Easter egg.

Jack cupped his hands around the hot chocolate Dean had bought for him from one of the food stalls and stared out at the park's ice skating rink. “This just doesn't seem like the kind of place we usually find a case.”

“Yeah, but three skaters are in the hospital,” Dean replied, sipping at his own coffee. Jack had meant to get coffee, but he'd spent so much time staring at the peppermint hot cocoa that Dean had bought that for him without even asking. “All tied to this skating...thing.”

The thing in question was an ice skating exhibition at the town's outdoor rink. The town was well-known for training up skaters for performance companies, and for the holiday season several teams had planned to do mini performances of their big shows.

The exhibition schedule filled a large sign next to the rink. There were several Disney songs—some that Jack recognized, some that were new to him, the duet between Scarecrow and Dorothy from _The Wizard of Oz_ , a couple of routines from competitive ice skaters, and medleys from _The Nutcracker_ and _Swan Lake_.

“They were with the same company, right?” Jack asked, moving closer to the sign.

“Yep. They were all swans.”

“But it doesn't make sense,” Jack said as he and Dean began walking around the skating rink. “None of them are even the princess in the main show, who would want to take them out?”

“That's why we're here. Hey, Sam made it.”

Jack waved to the taller Winchester, who gave him a small wave back and wound his way through the crowd to meet them. Sam still looked tired from the long drive, the shadow of stubble on his face making him look older.

“Find out anything?” Sam asked.

“Not much. Nobody knows anyone who has it in for the _Swan Lake_ crew,” Dean replied. “Where's Cas?”

“Oh, he had some trouble at the other hospital,” Sam explained. “They almost didn't let him in to see Justine. He had to call back to the bunker for help.”

Jack focused on his cocoa, trying to ignore the way Dean rolled his eyes. He knew Cas wasn't always the best at talking to witnesses, but his surrogate father usually came through in the end.

“Well, keep an eye out,” Dean finally said, as the announcer made his way to the center of the ring to begin the show. “Jack and I'll circle left, you go right.”

Sam nodded and headed off to make a circuit of the ice rink. Jack kept pace with Dean, trying to focus on the crowd around him rather than the lights and sounds from the performance. “What do you think it is?” he asked in a lull in the music.

Dean shrugged. “Maybe a hex. Something is making those girls lose it. I mean one falls and breaks a hip, sure, but three from the same company?”

“Yeah...” Jack slowed down for a moment as a mother with three excited young girls passed in front of them. “Or maybe a cursed object?”

Dean tilted his head. “Yeah, but what would they be sharing around like that?”

Ahead of them at the opposite from where they'd started, Sam was beckoning frantically, his phone held to his ear. Dean patted Jack on the arm and pushed forward to his brother, Jack easily following in his wake.

“And you're sure?” Sam was saying as they reached him. “No, no, I don't doubt it, Cas. Yeah, that's great news. See you soon.”

“Well?” Dean asked impatiently, hands outspread.

“It's a tiara,” Sam replied, slipping his phone back in his pocket. “Cas figured it out. See, back in the 90s a skater from this training school had the part of Odette in _Swan Lake_ , but before she could perform it she fell on the ice and broke her hip.”

“Just like the three victims,” Jack interjected.

“Right. But the doctors couldn't quite fix her hip, something shifted or didn't heal right or something, and she could never skate again. So she killed herself.”

“And let me guess,” Dean said with a sigh, tossing his empty coffee cup into a nearby trash can. “Someone decided to use her old tiara in tonight's performance?”

“Right,” Sam replied. “The girl Cas was interviewing, Justine? The skater who killed herself was Justine's aunt.”

“But why did it get Justine last?” Jack asked.

“Well, she just wanted the top skater in their group to wear it,” Sam said. “Justine didn't care if it wasn't her, she just wanted her aunt's tiara to have its moment in the spotlight.”

“Where is it now?” Dean asked.

As Sam opened his mouth to answer, the lights on the rink changed from the merry gold and green for _The Wizard of Oz_ to a cool, almost melancholic white and blue. A few bars of soft music started playing, strings and piano, and Jack turned to watch the rink as seven skaters in white tights with black domino masks gliding out in perfect synchronization.

“It's on the ice,” Sam replied.

The Winchesters moved almost instantly. Sam rose on his toes to see over the crowd and began pushing his way to the platform where the people controlling the lights and music were working, while Dean headed in the opposite direction to the little dressing room that had been set up for the performers. After a moment's hesitation, Jack followed Dean. Sam probably didn't need any help explaining things to the techs running the show, while Dean might need backup if there was security.

There was security, of course, but Dean had his FBI badge out before the two guards had a chance to even speak to him. “...look, we need the ice clear,” Dean was saying as Jack reached his side, digging in his pocket for his own badge.

“Sorry, sir, but there's nothing we can do,” one of the guards said. He didn't seem very impressed by Dean's forged credentials. “I've radioed my supervisor, we'll see what she says.”

Dean muttered something under his breath and tried to push past the guards, but they closed up on him to keep him back. Jack stepped back, glancing between the ice and Dean.

There was a scream from the ice.

Jack squeezed under one of the security guard's outstretched arms as Dean was now restraining both of them, leaving Jack free to slide out to where one of the skaters, tiara pinned to her dark hair, seemed to be going through a set of moves with an unsteady flourish. Her face was twisted in panic, and Jack could hear her calling for help even over the music.

He grabbed the first skater he reached, showed her his badge and told her to leave the ice. Then another, slowly working his way toward the dark-haired girl in the tiara.

“Jack!”

He peered over his shoulder to see Dean sliding out to meet him, the larger man only slightly more graceful on the ice. “She's got the tiara!”

“Thanks,” Dean replied, wryly, grabbing Jack's shoulder to steady himself as he reached him (and nearly sending Jack skidding away). “Hang back here, I'm gonna try to grab her.”

Jack nodded, checking back on the ice to make sure no one was following them. The security guards looked like they wanted to, but a quick flare of his powers sent them stumbling away. No need to put civilians in danger.

Dean, meanwhile, had slid in closer to the skater, hands held out, watching her moving form for a chance to dive in and take the tiara. He cursed as she spun in place, one leg out straight, catching him across the arm with the blade of her skate.

The skater, sobbing in terror, pushed away from Dean for the next part of the cursed routine. Jack felt his stomach tighten—every second they were closer to this girl getting hurt. So he did the only thing he could think of, and pushed a little of his power toward her to knock her onto the ice.

She sprawled ungracefully, a cry of pain leaving her lips, but Dean was already sliding over to her.

“It's gonna be okay,” Jack said, slipping down to his knees to grab her hands while Dean wrenched the tiara off of her head. “We'll take care of you, you'll be okay.”

“Sammy!”

Sam had left the technicians as soon as they'd halted the program, and was just starting to climb over the barrier to the rink itself. “Dean?”

“Take it!” Dean flung the tiara at Sam like a Frisbee, rhinestones catching in the colorful lights of the festival.

Jack barely noticed Sam kneeling behind the barrier to light the tiara on fire. He was focusing on the girl, who'd begun to cling to Jack and sob into his shoulder.

“I-I couldn't st-stop,” she managed to sob out. “J-just like the others.”

“It's all right,” Jack said, looking up to Dean for help. Dean was grimacing at his arm—the skate had cut him open almost from wrist to elbow, and bright red blood was dripping onto the ice. “You'll be fine.”

“You guys all right?” Sam asked, finally joining them in the center of the rink. “I took care of the tiara.”

“Nothing Cas can't take care of,” Dean complained, trying to wrap his torn sleeve tighter around his arm. “Where is he, anyway?”

“He'll be here soon,” Sam replied, pulling off his jacket to wrap around the girl, who was still clinging to Jack. “What happened to you?”

“Just a scratch,” Dean answered. “I tell you, Sammy, ice skaters. They're like ballerinas...but with knives.”

Sam snorted. “At least the tiara wasn't your size.”

“Yeah, bite me, bitch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Six Geese a-Gaming (AKA Untitled Goose Chapter)
> 
> "I can't sense anything unusual about these geese, Dean."
> 
> "Great, then they're just dicks. Like all geese. Everywhere."
> 
> (Still posting in the face of adversary because I have faith in the final chapter)


	7. Six Geese a-Gaming (AKA Untitled Goose Chapter)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I can't sense anything unusual about these geese, Dean."
> 
> "Great, then they're just dicks. Like all geese. Everywhere."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: tooth-rotting fluff. You wanted precious cinnamon bunny Jack Kline? You get precious cinnamon bunny Jack Kline. Heck, even if you didn't want it...here it is.

“Cas!” Dean hurried across the field to the picnic pavilion. “I got your message, man, what's up?”

“My message?” the angel stared at Dean in bemusement, head tilted to the side. “You were the one who sent me a message, Dean.”

“What?” Dean pulled up short and tugged his phone out of his pocket. “No, no I never sent you one. See, you sent this one.” He turned the phone to face Cas.

**Dean. This is Cas. I have had to purchase a temporary phone. Please meet me at this location at your earliest convenience.**

“Then how do you explain this message?” Cas asked, holding his own phone out for Dean to examine.

**Cas. This is Dean. I have had to purchase a temporary phone. Please meet me at this location at your earliest convenience.**

“Okay, first, that text sounds nothing like me,” Dean complained. “Second, why would I need an extra phone when we have a whole box of burner phones back home?” Third, he should have known it wasn't Cas from the distinct lack of emoticons.

Cas slipped his phone back in his pocket and looked away, eyes scanning the park for any sign that either of them had been followed. “Perhaps we should move.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” Still sulky, but just a little, Dean followed his friend away from the pavilion toward the edge of the park's little lake. “Dude, I think someone is setting us up.”

Cas nodded sagely “I believe this is a 'parent trap'.”

“What?” Dean took a half step back, startled green eyes meeting unreadable blue. “The hell, Cas? We're not parents. Well, not that kind of parents.”

“We have had our arguments,” Cas replied. “Perhaps someone believes that placing us in an idyllic setting will compel us to rekindle our relationship.”

Dean spluttered, but finally settled on resting a hand on Cas's shoulder to pull the angel's attention back to him from the imaginary dangers in the park. “Okay, first? Too much Disney. Second? Our 'relationship' is fine, man, sometimes friends just have arguments. I didn't want you taking that ghoul case on your own, you didn't want to wait for me to get back.”

“There were innocent lives at stake, Dean. I couldn't wait any longer.”

“I know, I know,” Dean blew out a sigh. “We've just lost so many people, you know? And we've got the bunker, and Sam's got this, this hunter's network? I just don't like it when you're out there on your own, okay?”

“I'm an angel, Dean.”

“I know, Cas, it's just...”

“You were on a hunt on your own.”

“Yeah, man, but that's different.”

“How is that different?”

Dean rubbed a hand over his face, biting back a surge of irritation. He'd secretly wanted an opportunity like this—some chance to talk to Cas one-on-one to clear the air, but as usual once the time came he just seemed to say the wrong thing. “It just is.”

“Because when you're on a hunt alone you have control over the situation and can accurately judge the danger for yourself?” Cas asked. Dean looked up to find a glimmer of amusement in his friend's eyes, and his shoulders slumped forward in relief.

“Dammit, Cas,” he swore fondly, patting his friend's shoulder. “You knew all along, huh?”

Cas gave a soft laugh and turned away, studying the pond instead of the park now, invisible danger passed. “You are somewhat predictable, my friend.”

“Look, Sam! There they are!”

Dean glanced over his shoulder to see Jack running toward them from the picnic pavilion. “Oh, hey, kid. What brings you here?”

“We finished that haunted house job,” Jack explained.

“It was one ghost,” Sam corrected, arriving behind the young nephilim at a much slower pace.

“And we just happened to be in the area,” Jack continued. “And I thought this park looked nice, and then we saw your car, Dean, and it turns out both of you are here!”

Dean leveled a stare at Jack. “Uh-huh.”

“What?” Jack tried to look innocent, but his eyes were way too shifty.

“You wouldn't have anything to do with a couple of texts Cas and I got, would you?”

Jack pretended to be shocked. He'd obviously been practicing by watching daytime soap operas, because he literally pressed one hand to his chest and took a step back. “What texts? Why would I text you to meet here?”

“Well, for one thing, I never said the texts said to meet here,” Dean began, a grin building at the sudden deer-in-the-headlights look that came over Jack's face. “Also, this is Lebanon's only park, Jack. It's fifteen minutes out of the way if you were just heading home.”

The kid tried to protest, then his shoulders sank and his face fell. “I'm sorry.”

“Why did you 'parent trap' us, Jack?” Cas asked gently.

“Dude,” Dean shook his head as Sam erupted into peals of laughter. “I told you, that's not what this is.”

“I just thought since Sam and I finished our case, if you two were free maybe we could just have lunch together?”

Ah, damn. There were the puppy-dog eyes. Sammy must have been teaching the kid. “Jack...”

“We don't need to be tricked,” Cas said. The angel hesitated for a moment, then awkwardly wrapped one arm around Jack's shoulders. Dean bit back a grin when he recognized the move—it was one he and Sammy had perfected over the years. The good ol' Winchester Side-Hug.

“Yeah, c'mon, kid,” Dean stretched his arms over his head, wincing at the pop between his shoulders. “You just have to ask.”

“Great!” Jack beamed, reaching out to grab Dean and Cas by the hands and pull them back up to the pavilion. “Sam and I already set everything up.”

“You're in on this?” Dean demanded as Sam overtook them.

Sam laughed again. “Come on, it'll be fun.”

Fun. Right. Dean wanted to snatch his hand away from Jack, to scold the kid that men didn't have picnics.

But the look of unbridled joy on the kid's face...and Sam's poorly-hidden amusement at the situation...and now Cas was trying to identify whatever the hell was in the deli-style potato salad.

Okay. Maybe this one time.

* * *

“I'm sorry you didn't like the sandwiches, Cas.”

Castiel smiled at his surrogate son. “Most things only taste like molecules to me, Jack. It's not your fault.”

Jack's forehead wrinkled in confusion. “How does something taste like molecules.”

“It's difficult to explain,” Castiel tied off the bag of bread as he tried to consider an explanation that would make sense to the young nephilim. “Have you ever-”

_Honk!_

Castiel turned around. There, standing behind him, was a particularly grouchy-looking goose. Its feathers were white and sleek, its eyes tiny black pinpricks of madness, and it was eyeing the bread in the angel's hands.

“Can we feed it something?”

“I don't think bread is good for them,” Castiel replied. “Perhaps we could-”

_Honk!_

The goose waddled closer, nosing at the bread with its bill. The tiny, mad eyes seemed to be weighing the goose's chances against an angel of the lord and the son of Lucifer.

It decided it was a fair match.

The goose grabbed the end of the bag of bread and yanked back trying to shake it out of Castiel's hands. Castiel held on, reaching down to pry the plastic out of the goose's mouth only to get bitten on the fingers for his trouble.

_Honk!_

“Cas!” Jack's voice rose in alarm, and Castiel looked over his shoulder to see another goose had joined the first. The second goose had its head down in the cooler, nudging around the unopened bottles of beer as though looking for something else.

A tug on his hand brought Castiel's attention back around. A third goose had joined the party, fighting with the first over the scavenge rights to the bread the angel was still holding.

“There are more,” Jack warned.

“Go find Sam and Dean,” Castiel replied. Not that he knew what the human hunters would do, but it wouldn't help anything to have the boy overrun. Most animals were in awe of angels, or at least afraid of them. These just seemed very, very angry.

_Honk!_

A fourth goose loomed up on the table, overturning the remains of the questionable potato salad. The second pulled its head out of the cooler to join its brethren in smearing around bits of potato and onion, their beaks thoroughly coated in a mixture of mayonnaise, mustard, and unnameable preservatives.

_Honk!_

Castiel dropped the bread as one of the geese bit him on the wrist. If they were so determined, perhaps they deserved the digestive discomfort from eating processed grains and plastic wrap.

“Cas?”

“Dean!” Castiel was relieved when the human hunter approached, eyes wide. “I don't know how to stop them.”

“You just shoo them away,” Dean replied, one side of his mouth quirking up in amusement. “Here, watch this. Hey, you! Get outta here!” Dean held his arms out and waved them at one of the geese, approaching it in a threatening manner.

The goose hissed.

Dean froze, hands drawing back in toward his chest. “What the hell?”

_Honk!_

“There's another one behind you,” Castiel warned, brushing at the bills prodding his hands and pockets in futility. There were five geese now, two of them fighting over the now-empty bread bag, the other three dividing their attention between the scraps on the table and the (imagined) hidden treats in the angel's trench coat.

“Son of a...” Dean took a hasty step to one side as a sixth goose joined the chaos, honking noisily to the others. “What the hell, Cas?”

“I don't know!” Castiel tugged his coat free from one persistent goose and took a few steps away, alarmed to see the geese tracking his movements and starting to follow him. “I don't know what they want from me!”

“Well, you had the bread,” Dean suggested. Unhelpfully. “Maybe they think you have more.”

“Dean!”

All six geese had abandoned the picnic table to waddle after Castiel. It shouldn't have been intimidating—he was an angel of the lord and these were mere animals—but they kept rearing up to a greater height, somehow, and flapping their wings in a sign of dominance.

“Hang on,” Dean had retrieved the abandoned bread bag and was scooping whatever scraps he could find into it. “Here we go. Hey, bird-brains!” He rattled the bag and gained the attention of one goose, which half-turned to face him. “That's it, yeah, you and your buddies want this stuff, right?”

The goose stared at Dean with its tiny, mad eyes. It looked from the bag to the human and back again. Castiel didn't have time to warn his friend before the fiend struck.

“Dammit! It bit me!”

Castiel had circled back toward Dean, now standing back-to-back with the hunter. “Dean?”

“These are demons, right?” Dean kicked out at one that was trying to grab at his boot. “Gotta be demonic.”

“I can't sense anything unusual about these geese, Dean,” Castiel replied, voice tight with humiliation.

“Great, then they're just dicks. Like all geese. Everywhere.”

_HONK!_

Castiel felt Dean flinch and cover his ears. “What was that?”

_HONK!_

The geese were babbling to each other now, shifting restlessly on the grass.

_HONK! HONK! HONK!_

Sam appeared around the corner, one finger in his ear and the other hand holding an air horn. The geese, disturbed by the sudden noise, were slowly waddling away from Dean and Castiel, honking among themselves and throwing disgusted looks back at the hunters.

“Dammit, Sammy,” Dean growled, dropping his hands to inspect his clothing for damage. “What took you so long?”

“You're welcome,” Sam retorted. “You're lucky I found the air horn. I could have left your ass here.”

Dean rolled his eyes and turned to snatch up some of the fallen debris from the goose frenzy. “This is why we don't have picnics,” he muttered.

Castiel joined him, relieved to find that the geese had, at least, left the roll of garbage bags untouched.

_Honk!_

Dean whirled around, losing his balance and landing in what remained of the potato salad. “Son of a bitch! Not cool, Sam!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember, Cas is also a precious cinnamon bunny who doesn't understand the romantic implications of the parent trap situation. While I do enjoy Destiel now and then, I also think there's something just genuinely heartwarming about a deep friendship between two people, so I think this situation is innocent enough to remain gen.
> 
> Next time: Five Tarnished Rings
> 
> "On their own the rings are fairly harmless, but if you put them all together they actually make a rather powerful anti-angel weapon."


	8. Five Tarnished Rings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "On their own the rings are fairly harmless, but if you put them all together they actually make a rather powerful anti-angel weapon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...okay, little more Cas whump.
> 
> (This also fulfills my pathological need to put Cas in civilian clothes. I don't understand it, I just need to shove him in a T-shirt and jeans every now and then lol)

“There he is,” Sam nodded out the windshield as Dean pulled the Impala into a parking space outside a rundown-looking bar. “That's Malcolm.”

“Man, we haven't seen him since we were kids,” Dean replied. He turned off the ignition and twisted in his seat to face the angel. “He probably doesn't know about the whole angel thing, so maybe keep it down?”

Cas, at Dean's insistence, was wearing light-colored jeans and a black t-shirt with a Led Zeppelin album cover on the front. Oh, and a pissy expression, because the “angel of the lord” didn't see the need for civilian camouflage when meeting one of John Winchester's old friends.

“Just keep it cool,” Dean said sharply, rolling his eyes as he stepped out of the car. Malcolm was already pulling Sammy into a hug, a bright grin all over his face.

“And that's Dean?” Malcolm held his hand out and tugged the older Winchester into his own embrace. “Damn, you look just like your dad. Guess Sam here got the looks in the family, huh?” Malcolm was somewhere in his fifties, long brown hair now streaked with gray and pulled back to a simple ponytail. His dark gray eyes were still sharp, with a scar cutting through his right eyebrow from where a wendigo had nearly taken that eye.

“Ah, who's your friend?” Malcolm asked as Cas approached. “I thought this was a family matter?”

“This is Castiel,” Dean explained, angling himself so Cas was including in the group. “He's...he's family.”

“Oh,” Malcolm looked the angel up and down. “Well, good for you, Dean. Come on, I'll show you what I've got.”

Sam grinned and followed Malcolm in the bar, not before shooting Dean a mischievous smile. Dean spluttered in protest—why did people always misunderstand _that_? First it had been Sammy, now it was Cas...did everyone in the world assume he was just shacking up with whatever piece of ass was closest?

“Dean?”

“Forget it, man,” Dean grumbled, running a hand through his short hair. “Just don't...don't be you, okay? Be normal.” He pretended not to notice the hurt expression on Cas's face and cursed himself internally. People had assumed things about him and Cas before and he'd just played it off...why was it so much harder to take from one of his dad's friends?

“So, you know your dad had caches all over the country,” Malcolm began explaining once Dean and Cas caught up with him. “Well, they haven't all stayed secure, and I'm afraid one got busted open about twelve years ago.”

“Twelve years ago?” Sam asked as Malcolm spread a map out on the bar's counter. “That wasn't too long after he died.”

“Right, I think there was a life-key on some of them. They stayed hidden as long as he was alive, but once he was gone...”

“Pop,” Dean said. He shook his head, angling around so he could see the map. “You got a lead on what busted it?”

“Demons. Long gone by now. I did get a lead on one of the artifacts.” Malcolm set his notebook on top of the map and flipped through the pages until he found a set of pictures. “Here, see these? The Rings of Augustine. There's an exorcism engraved right into the silver, rumor is if you know the right spell you can expel a demon with a single touch.”

Cas was squinting in concentration, leaning down to study the tarnished silver rings in the picture. “That's not what this says,” he commented.

Malcolm blustered, tugging the photos back and slamming his journal closed. “What would you know about it? John and I spent two years trying to crack the language on those.”

Cas opened his mouth to answer but Dean deliberately stepped on his foot and shook his head slightly. He'd recognized the Enochian too, but if Malcolm didn't know it was actually angelic language he was better off staying in the dark.

Not like the angels would do anything about it anyway, if this was one of their treasures or whatever.

“So you've got a lead on them?” Sam asked, breaking the awkward silence.

“Word is they passed through an auction a few months ago,” Malcolm replied, still glowering at Cas. “They separated the set but I've gotten three of them, and I think I've tracked down the last two.”

“May I see the ones you've found?” Cas asked, neatly side-stepping Dean's foot as the hunter tried to silence him again.

“Now why would you want that, boy?” Malcolm asked, his voice now harsh. “If John Winchester himself couldn't translate these, what makes you think _you_ have a shot?”

“Cas studied ancient languages before he became a hunter,” Sam cut in, physically stepping in front of Castiel to block Malcolm's view. “Dad consulted specialists all the time, maybe Cas should take a look at them.”

Dean stepped on Sammy's foot this time, giving his brother a clear signal to back the hell off. If Malcolm didn't want to give up the rings he'd found, what did that matter to them? Maybe instead of burning bridges immediately they should be trying to cooperate with one of the only hunters left from Dad's era, maybe add some authority to Sam's network?

“Perhaps I was mistaken,” Cas offered, and it nearly killed Dean to see the angel staring down at his feet with his hands in his pockets. Had he really been acting like that much of a bastard this whole trip? Bad enough to kill whatever joy Cas might have had in taking a normal case with the brothers?

Before Dean could open his mouth to relent and suggest Cas should look at the rings, Malcolm had already rolled up the map and snapped a rubber band around with with a satisfied expression. “Hey, Deano, wanna come with me?” the older man suggested. “Sam can take your little friend and check out the bank while we look at the curio dealer?”

Dean started to object to the “little friend” comment—honestly, what was it with some hunters and civilians? Plus, Cas was a total badass, he didn't deserve that—but Cas was already turning around to leave the bar. “Yeah, hang on a second,” Dean said, jogging to catch up with Cas as the angel left the building.

“I'm fine, Dean,” Cas said, before Dean could even ask. “I'll go with Sam. I'll be...normal.”

“Look, Cas,” Dean stuffed his hands in his own pockets, chewing his lips as he considered what to say. “I just don't think Malcolm would take the whole angel thing well, okay? Just a little while, just until we're done with this job?”

Cas's shoulders slumped even further, if that were possible, and Dean realized the angel hadn't even tried to make eye contact. Dammit. This was getting worse and worse.

“Hey,” Sam neatly stepped up next to Cas, almost close enough to brush shoulders. “I got the directions from Malcolm. We'll check the bank, and meet back at his place to put everything together.”

“Cas...” Dean ducked his head, trying to catch the angel's eye, but Cas just turned away to walk to the Impala. “Sammy...”

“I'll talk to him,” Sam promised. “But dude...you're being a dick.”

“Yeah,” Dean shook his head as Sam hurried after Cas. “Yeah, I know.”

* * *

“I don't think they're the Rings of Augustine,” Cas finally said, after he and Sam had been on the road for a few minutes.

Sam glanced over, pleased that Cas had brought up the subject on his own. “What are they?”

“I only saw a fraction of the engraving, but they may be the Rings of the Accuser.”

Sam waited. Cas was staring out the window, though his expression in the reflection looked lost in thought or memory. “Cas?”

“There was a flail. In Heaven. One of the commanders, they...it was a punishment.”

The hunter swallowed back the nausea twisting in his stomach. “What happened?”

“It was used on one of the lower angels once, and he was nearly beaten to death. Michael was infuriated and decreed that the flail could never be used again, so the commander had it melted down and formed into five rings which he gifted to his favorites. I don't know when they would have fallen to earth, but I find it odd that your father had them in his possession.”

“Cas, that angel...was that...”

“No. I was...that was Balthazar.”

Sam winced, wishing he had the right words to comfort his friend. Being confronted with such an artifact in addition to Dean's overbearing behavior was most likely painful for Cas. “Look, I can drop you off at the hotel if you'd rather stay out of this,” he offered.

“I'm fine, Sam.”

Sam let the silence sit between them for a moment. “It's okay if you're not.”

Cas sighed, finally turning in his seat to face out the windshield. “We will retrieve the rings and lock them away in a safe place, then this job will be over.”

“Absolutely,” Sam agreed. This job would be over, and Dean owed them both some serious groveling for his asshole behavior.

* * *

“So...” Malcolm began. They were in his truck, some beat-up clunker from twenty years ago, on the way back to his place from the curio shop where Malcolm's contact had stashed the ring. “Castiel.”

“Yeah?” Dean stared out the window as the scenery rolled by. “What about him?”

“Come on, man,” Malcolm's voice was disdainful now. “You know he's not human, right?”

Dean glanced over at the older man. “What'd you say?”

“I got a sense for these things, kid. I don't know what he's told you, but I know that Castiel is no human.”

“Yeah, well....”

“You mean you _know_?” Malcolm shook his head. “Boy, what would your daddy say if he knew you were shacking up with a monster?”

“Okay, first of all? Not shacking up,” Dean slapped the dashboard with one hand, eyes blazing in anger. “Cas is a friend, okay? Hell, he's almost as much my brother as Sammy is. And my _daddy_ would show Cas the respect he deserves.”

“Whoa, take it easy,” Malcolm held one hand out. “Sorry, kiddo, didn't know it was such a sore spot. You just hear rumors, you know? Folks just see you together so much, word gets around. I won't mention it again.”

“Right.” Dean turned back away to stare out the window. The irritation he'd been feeling toward Malcolm, and himself, was starting to bloom into something deeply wrong. He was missing something, he knew it.

“What is he, anyway?” Malcolm asked. His voice was casual, but Dean could tell it was faked.

“Just a friend,” Dean replied. His gut was screaming at him now and he decided Malcolm didn't need to know any more information about Cas or Sam. “Look, I don't want to talk about it.”

“Too bad.” The older man's voice was harder now. “Looks like I'll have to ask him, then.”

Dean turned to ask what Malcolm meant, just in time to catch a blow to his temple that bounced his head off the window and into unconsciousness.

* * *

“I guess this is it,” Sam said, pulling up outside the cabin. “Malcolm's truck is here, they must already be inside.”

Cas had the ring in his pocket, wrapped in a piece of felt, but he didn't move from the car when Sam stepped out.

“Cas?” Sam leaned in through the window. “This is it, remember? We put the rings in a safe place and go home.”

“Of course,” Cas nodded. He stared at the cabin for a moment longer before he climbed out of the car to follow Sam. It was almost more shed than cabin, with a wide array of dreamcatchers and other charms hanging from the rafters around the outbuildings. “Sam?” Cas had grabbed his arm before they reached the door. “Be careful.”

“Right,” Sam flashed his friend a comforting smile. “Let's just get this done.”

He pushed open the door, Cas on his heels, and a flash of light nearly blinded him before a loud tone, almost like radio feedback, nearly knocked Sam back a step. Beside him, Cas convulsed and gave a guttural cry before collapsing to his knees with his hands pressed against his ears.

“Ah. Angel. I thought that was the case.”

Sam blinked his vision clear, dropping to one knee to check on Cas, and looked up to see Malcolm in the center of the cabin's single room with a small crystal in one hand. Behind him, Dean was tied to a chair, the blood and bruises on the older Winchester's face evidence of his mistreatment.

“Malcolm?” Sam surged to his feet, hand going to the knife in his belt, but the older man simply held the crystal up. The feedback-sound filled the room again, and Cas cried out in pain. Sam turned back around in time to see the angel cough up a mouthful of blood, folded nearly in half, features creased in agony.

“Let him go, you son of a bitch!” Dean yelled.

“The ring!” Malcolm held his hand out to Sam. “I want the ring. As promised.”

“We couldn't get it,” Sam lied. “Your info was wrong, it wasn't in the strongbox.”

“Oh, Sammy,” Malcolm turned the crystal in his hand and Cas convulsed again, his cries fading to a high-pitched whine as he collapsed to the floor. “I can do this all day, though your friend might not enjoy having his essence pulverized into atoms.”

“All right!” Sam held his hands up. “Just leave him alone, okay? I'll get the ring.” He gently patted at Cas's pockets, finally locating the felt-wrapped item.

Cas fumbled at Sam and caught him by one wrist with a trembling hand. “D-don't,” he whispered. “The rings...”

Sam squeezed Cas's fingers. “Just answer me one thing,” he asked, turning back to Malcolm. “Why did you need us to get this ring? It was only a few hours away.”

“I've been cursed,” Malcolm explained. “The witch I stole these from was very powerful. If I ever tried to unite the rings on my own I would suffer a very painful death. Luckily, I know a couple of kids who were just itching to take care of something for one of their old man's pals.”

The older man snatched the ring out of Sam's hand. “Do you know how long I've waited for this?” he demanded. “Oh, just look at them...even tarnished they're absolutely gorgeous.”

“All right, you've got the rings,” Sam said, hands held out to show he wasn't reaching for a weapon. “Why don't you just let me untie Dean and we can get out of here?”

“Like hell, Sammy!”

“Dean! Shut up!” He threw a glare at his brother...of course Malcolm wasn't getting away with this, but as long as the old hunter had that crystal he had Cas at his mercy.

“Do you even know what these are?” Malcolm asked. He'd set the ring he'd gotten from Sam on a little table to one side in the single room and opened the drawer to line the others up beside it. The runes glowed with ethereal light as the rings were reunited, and even through the tarnish Sam could see the delicate script etched around each ring.

“The Rings of the Accuser?” Sam guessed. “Forged from an instrument of heaven and given to five of Zachariah's favorites?” He was guessing at the commander Cas had mentioned, there weren't many of those winged dicks whose memory actually troubled the angel.

Malcolm's face darkened. “Of course you know,” he snarled, then clenched the crystal in his fist so that the feedback-sound echoed through the room again, even worse than before. Sam clapped his own hands over his ears, and through the haze of pain he could see Dean thrashing in his bonds while Cas had gone disturbingly still.

“But they were so much more than a gift to Zachariah's underlings,” Malcolm continued. “On their own the rings are fairly harmless, but if you put them all together they actually make a rather powerful anti-angel weapon.” He slipped the rings onto his hand, one at a time, and made a fist so that the runework glowed in an arc around his hand. Watch.”

Malcolm held his hand out toward Cas, the runes glowing across his knuckles, and the angel was lifted as though by an invisible force and flung against the wall. Cas hung there, pinned by an invisible hand, barely conscious and bleeding from his nose and ears.

“They say the flail could strip an angel of its feathers,” Malcolm commented, taking a step toward Cas and making a gesture with his hand that made the angel shudder with pain. “I wonder what it could do to a mortal vessel?”

“Look, you've got what you want,” Sam called, edging toward the table where Malcolm had left the crystal. Dean's hip flask was on the table, along with his weapons and a few odds and ends from his pockets. “Just let us go, and we can all go back to our lives.”

“But I've only just started,” Malcolm complained. “You should see the lore I found about these things. We could control heaven itself with this kind of power. Think about it, Sam! Think about all the souls just waiting for someone to take control!”

“World domination?” Dean taunted. “That's your plan?”

Malcolm sneered over his shoulder. Sam noticed he hadn't dropped his hand, which meant whatever power the rings held required focus to use. “A world without monsters is small thinking,” Malcolm said. “What about a world without evil? There are a lot of evil humans we could end, boys.”

“Yeah,” Sam backed into the table, hands searching for the one item that could turn the tables. “I think we're looking at one.”

The old hunter turned angrily, and in one smooth motion Sam uncapped Dean's flask and flung the contents into Malcolm's face. Dean had his vices, and rotgut whiskey in a hip flask was one of them. Malcolm screamed, both hands going to his face. Cas slid off the wall and crumpled to the ground with a pained moan.

Sam lowered his shoulders and tackled Malcolm, wrapping his much-longer arms around the other hunter to pin his arms to his sides. Malcolm thrashed and cursed but Sam was already twisting him into an arm-lock just long enough to pry one of the rings loose and fling it across the room.

“You little bastard!” Malcolm howled, jerking his head back hard enough to break Sam's nose. The older hunter scrambled to his feet and made for the ring, but Cas managed to drag himself up just enough to grab Malcolm around the knees.

“Dammit!” Malcolm stumbled and kicked out at Cas, then grabbed the angel's hair with one hand to wrench his head up to punch him with the other—the one with the remaining rings. The rings must have still held some power even with one missing, as Cas gave a cry and fell away.

Sam had gotten back up by then, and grabbed at the nearest thing he could—a chair just like the one Dean was tied in—and swung it at Malcolm's back with all the force he could muster. The chair splintered and Malcolm fell to his knees, coughing and cursing, and Cas was back on him. The angel had given up any sign of finesse and just wrapped himself around the old hunter as a dead weight to drag him down. Sam took advantage of this to pin Malcolm's arm under his knee and wrench the rest of the rings off, not caring if he broke a few of the man's fingers.

Malcolm went limp, his breath heaving in harsh pants. “Damn you, Winchester.”

“Yeah, you wouldn't be the first,” Sam retorted. He flung the rest of the rings across the room for good measure, getting them out of arm's reach for the moment. “And for the record? Our old man? He'd think you were more a monster than Cas.”

The old hunter just lay there, panting and cursing, face buried in the rotted wood of the cabin floor. Sam shook his hair out of his eyes and glanced at Cas to try to determine the angel's injuries. Cas looked winded, which wasn't a good sign, but he'd managed to wipe the blood away from his nose and ears. He nodded to Sam, then pushed himself to his feet and gingerly made his way over to untie Dean.

Malcolm made a sudden move, slamming his shoulder into Sam's broken nose. The younger Winchester flinched back at the pain as bright spots exploded in his vision, and in the next moment he was sprawled on the ground and Malcolm was charging toward a revolver that had fallen to the floor during the struggle.

Before Sam could react, before Dean could shout a warning, Cas somehow got in front of Malcolm and placed a hand on his forehead. There was a flare of white light, almost too bright for the human eye, and a startled cry from the old hunter before his body collapsed to the ground, eyes burned to nothing but black sockets in the aftermath of the smiting.

“Cas!” Dean was wrenching at his ropes with one hand—Cas had managed to get one arm free, at least, before Malcolm's last-ditch attack.

But Sam was already moving, easily catching Cas as the angel collapsed. “I gotcha,” he murmured, twisting away from Malcolm's body to gently lower Cas to the ground. “We gotcha, Cas, it's gonna be okay.”

Cas had closed his eyes, but he opened them now to meet Sam's gaze.

Dean finally pulled free, stopping just long enough roll Malcolm's body out of the way. “Damn, Cas,” he swore, dropping to one knee next to Sam. “That was badass.”

“Definitely,” Sam smiled down at the angel. Cas's head was cradled in the crook of Sam's arm, and he blinked up at the taller man. He always forgot how _fast_ Cas was, even with his insides scrambled from Malcolm's crystal.

“I'll get the rings,” Dean offered. “We put them in separate cursed boxes, and first chance we get chuck a couple into the ocean.”

“Good idea,” Sam called after his brother. “Cas?”

The angel managed a nod. He looked exhausted, face sunken and ashen from pain. “Just sleep, Cas,” Sam said, shifting around so that Cas's head and shoulders were in Sam's lap. “We'll watch over you.”

There was a flicker of a smile across Cas's face, then he gave a short sigh and his eyes slid closed as he slipped into a healing sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally got Cas into that Led Zeppelin T-shirt from Hel's Tincture!
> 
> BTW Balthazar stole the rings when he ransacked the heavenly weapons. He sold them to a witch in exchange for some powerful spells to help keep him safe and hidden.
> 
> Also the flail and the rings and all of that are things I made up. And I know there's a common theme of "John Winchester comes back to life and hates Castiel", but I think if he knew how much Cas had given up for the boys he'd at least try. Also I fell asleep like four times trying to post this, so I have no idea what half of this even was lol.
> 
> Next time: Four Calling Cards
> 
> "No, I'm saying someone is leaving calling cards. Literal calling cards...this one still has twenty-three minutes."


	9. Four Calling Cards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No, I'm saying someone is leaving calling cards. Literal calling cards...this one still has twenty-three minutes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Scuse me, I'll just leave this here to rot your teeth right out of your head before I go to my work Christmas party.

The alarm clock said it was six in the morning when Dean gave up on trying to get any more sleep. He tied his robe on and pointedly ignored the slippers Sam had bought for him (yes, the bunker floor was freakin' cold in the morning, but that didn't mean he wanted to wear _badger_ slippers. And who or what was a Hufflepuff and why did Sam and Charlie think that was so funny?). Dean picked his way to the kitchen, trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes as he pulled open the fridge to consider what to make for breakfast.

He paused. The fridge was full—okay, there were other people using the bunker these days, and they usually had a pretty good rotation for supplies, so maybe that wasn't odd.

But it was full of pie.

Dean stared down a the racks full of box upon box of pie from the little bakery in Lebanon, plus the three six-packs of beer on the bottom shelf. He shut the fridge and stared at the door but there was no note about the contents, nothing on the door at all, in fact, except one of those prepaid phone cards stuck in place with a magnet. That wasn't unusual, in itself, some of the hunters would buy up phone cards and stash them in the bunker for whoever needed them.

He opened the fridge again and stared at the contents, just to make sure it wasn't a hallucination. Then shut it, folding his arms and stepping back to stare at the entire appliance.

“Dude, what are you doing?” Sam asked, jogging clothes damp with sweat. Which was gross and weird, since it was freakin' cold this time of year. Who sweats in the snow?

“Sammy? Look in the fridge.”

Sam shot him a bitch-face but pulled the fridge open, then slammed it with a disgusted expression. “Nice, Dean. You know other people eat too, right? We can't all live off of beer and pie.”

“Hey, I didn't-”

But Sammy was on a roll. “In fact, you can't live off of beer and pie. Maybe you should try some fruit that hasn't been cooked down in simple syrup and baked in pastry crust. You might like it.”

“Hey!” Dean grabbed his brother's arm, cutting off Sammy Rant No. 27: Why Can't Dean Just Be Vegan. “I didn't do this!”

Sam gave a snort of disbelief. “And who did. Elves?”

“Ew,” Dean shuddered. “Better not've. Be a waste of all that pie.”

“Whatever,” Sam pulled away and shook his head. “I'm gonna hit the shower then go into town for some actual food. You'd better find someplace else to keep all that pie.”

Dean pointedly ignored Sam's threat and went back to the pies. Whoever had filled the fridge had even gotten hold of one of the bakery's signature pies, pecan with a honey glaze.

Well, all this pie wasn't going to eat itself.

* * *

Sam's morning routine was simple. He stretched, maybe a little Tai Chi if he was feeling adventurous, went for a run, then took a shower under the bunker's amazing water pressure. The pounding water always helped soothe away the last of his aches and really put him in a good frame of mind for the rest of the day.

Even with Dean's shenanigans with the refrigerator.

He'd really thought his brother was past pulling stunts like this, Sam thought as he pulled on the jeans and T-shirt he'd left next to the radiator while out on his run. If it had just been the two of them maybe, maybe he could have seen the joke, but there were five other hunters in the bunker at the moment. Plus nearly a dozen more that could drop by at any time—and they had nothing to offer them but pie, beer, and whatever dry goods were left in the pantry.

Then again, it was pretty harmless as far as pranks went. There was a cool room for food storage, almost like an indoor root cellar, and the pies could be stored in there. The other hunters might appreciate having some sweets around for the holidays, too.

Sam was just figuring he could maybe forgive Dean for the pie trick when he opened the wardrobe to pull out a flannel shirt and found his clothing had been starched and ironed.

“The hell...” Sam tugged a shirt down, finding the collar, cuffs, and sleeves all perfectly creased (the way he liked his dress shirts pressed, but this was an old blue and brown flannel). Every shirt in the wardrobe was pressed, including (somehow) a dark blue sweater that Mom said made him look like a beatnik poet. And at the bottom, his shoes were lined up in pairs and flawlessly buffed to a high shine.

If this was a prank, it was the weirdest prank ever. And just, possibly, shed a little more light on the pies in the fridge.

He tugged open a drawer in his dresser to find his pants in the same state—flawlessly creased, lined up by color and style. Undershirts as well, and T-shirts, and even his boxers. Sam sank back on the foot of his bed, staring around his room in bewilderment. Who would sneak in here to iron his clothes?

The only thing out of place, he noticed, was a prepaid phone card on top of the dresser.

* * *

Dean, armed with several flavors of pie, was just making his way through the bunker to the Dean Cave when he caught sight of Castiel in one of the storerooms. “Hey, Cas. Pie?”

The angel barely acknowledged him, frowning at the labels of the boxes on one of the metal racks. “Hello, Dean.”

Well, that wouldn't do. “What's up?”

Now Cas looked at him, albeit briefly, with no word about the heaping plate on one hand or the six pack in the other. At 6:30 in the morning. “Someone has relabeled these boxes.”

“Yeah?” Dean set his plate and the six pack on one of the desks just inside the room and came over to Cas's side. “Oh, man. What the heck?”

“It would appear they have been labeled with both English and Enochian text.”

“Yeah, but, Cas,” Dean squinted and leaned in closer. “They're labeled in _calligraphy._ ”

The angel's shoulders slumped. “This was not my intention.”

“You did this?”

“I had planned to relabel this boxes,” Cas explained. “We have completed cataloging the artifacts on this level, and they were to be sorted and boxed according to their age and purpose.”

Dean felt a pinch of sympathy in his gut and patted Cas on the shoulder. He knew Cas and Sam had been at this for weeks, someone filling in all these labels behind Cas's back put the project back nearly at the beginning. “Wanna skip it for an hour and watch a movie?” he offered. “I've got pie.”

Cas looked like he was going to refuse, but then the angel's eyes darted to the other boxes. The storage room had shelves that reached all the way up to the eight-foot ceiling, filled end to end with boxes all scrawled with that painstakingly precise calligraphy.

It could be _weeks_ until they'd even verified the items on the shelves with the catalog.

“It's not a cowboy movie,” Dean coaxed. It was a horror movie from the 80s. Sammy usually rolled his eyes and left the room, but Cas always tried to dissect the plot down to the finest detail which had pretty hilarious results.

“I suppose it wouldn't harm the artifacts to wait a few hours,” Cas finally relented. He started to follow Dean out of the storage room but the hunter held one hand up.

“Dude, you drop something?”

Cas turned and crouched down to pick up the small, laminated card that had been at the foot of the metal rack. “I found this just inside the door,” he replied, passing the card to Dean. “I thought perhaps it belonged to someone who had been in this room.”

It was another prepaid phone card, different brand than the one from the fridge. “That's weird,” Dean commented, turning the card over in his hands.

“What does it mean?”

“I have no idea, Cas.”

* * *

Sam found his brother and Cas in the “Dean Cave”, empty pie plates stacked on the floor next to Dean's chair and a single bottle left in the six pack between them. “Dude, it's only eight am,” he complained, picking up a few of the empty bottles to chuck into the recycling can.

“Are you ironing your flannels now?” Dean asked, eyebrows raised nearly to his hairline.

“Someone did this for me,” Sam explained, holding out his hands to show the cuffs of his sleeves as well. “And that's not all. I went to the armory and all the ammunition has been sorted.”

“So?”

“Alphabetically.”

Dean stared at him, mouth moving slightly as he considered what Sam had said. “How does that work?”

“Someone took the numbers as they're written and alphabetized those,” Sam said. He settled down on the arm of Cas's chair and snagged a handful of popcorn. “It's not really a big deal, someone just moved everything around and now Jules and Bobby are trying to decide if we should move it back or get used to the new system.”

“What is up with this place lately?” Dean wondered as he sank back into his chair. On the TV screen a radioactive swamp monster was slowly chasing a woman in a white towel...though why she was wearing heels with the towel was anyone's guess.

“I found this,” Sam continued and pulled another prepaid phone card. “It's a calling card.”

Dean paused the movie. “A what?”

“I figured it out. You know how serial killers will sometimes leave a calling card at the scene of the crime? Well, that's what these are.”

“You're saying a serial killer is doing this stuff?”

“No, I'm saying someone is leaving calling cards. Literal calling cards...this one still has twenty-three minutes.”

Dean shook his head. “Who would do that, man?”

“Well...” Sam's eyes slid to Cas. The angel was fairly literal. He might think these were helpful things, not pointless annoyances.

“No way,” Dean protested. “That artifact catalog thing you two've been working on? Someone labeled everything last night and it's all screwed up. No way Cas did that.”

Sam looked down at the angel, who met his gaze with a resigned expression. “I'm sure it will be faster matching items the second time,” Cas said, though there was a hopeless quality to his voice over the hours wasted.

“I mean, I've only got one other suspect, really,” Sam said, patting Cas on the shoulder in solidarity.

“Jack?”

“Jack.”

* * *

“Hi guys!”

Jack was in the garage, nervously hiding a bucket of soapy water behind his back. “What's up?”

“Jack,” Sam started, resting one hand on the kid's shoulder and holding up a phone card. “Is this yours?”

Bingo. Jack's face lit up with a mixture of pride and cunning, which when combined with his floppy hair and the smudge of soap on his chin made him look about twelve. “I learned about random acts of kindness!”

“Random acts of...” Sam's voice faded away, so Dean took over.

“So you were behind the pies, and ironing Sammy's shirts, and sorting all the ammo?”

“Yep!” Jack straightened up in pride. “And I alphabetized your magazines, Dean. And I was washing the cars.”

“Alphabetized...” Dean stared. It was an odd feeling, he decided, knowing your sort-of surrogate son had not only been digging through the skin mags you kept under your bed, but had organized them by title. “By month or cover model?”

Sam elbowed Dean in the side. “And while we appreciate this, Jack, don't you think you're taking things a little far?”

Jack tilted his head. “I don't understand.”

“Look, man, I love the pie. Love it,” Dean took Sam's place next to the kid. “But some of that stuff...sometimes you've gotta ask permission instead of just doing things, all right? The storage room? Cas and Sam were already working on it.”

“I labeled everything!”

“Yeah, and it looks great, but they had a system for it and now it's all...well, it's all _jacked_ up.” He grinned, waiting for his brother or the kid to get the joke, but Jack's stare was blank and Sam's was disgusted. “Anyway,” Dean coughed. “Point is. It's great that you want to do things for other people. Really. But maybe...tone it back? Just little things, or things they've asked for help.”

“So...” Jack considered Dean's words. “I should ask if you want help washing the cars?”

“Hey, you can always come and pitch in,” Dean replied. Catching sight of the bottle of dish soap on the table behind Jack he hurriedly took the bucket out of the kid's hands. “Just talk to me first, okay?”

Jack's face fell. “But you liked everything else?” he asked hopefully.

“I love the pie. The pie is great. And Sammy looks sharper than ever.”

Sam shot him a bitch-face, but it was totally worth it. “Maybe you can help us reorganize the storage room?” he suggested. “Maybe if you explain the labels to Cas we can find a way to make everything work together?”

The kid's face lit up and he wrapped his arms around Sam, unconsciously smearing the soap on his chin into the older man's shirt. “I'd like that.”

“And I,” Dean announced, “would like some more pie. I'll leave you nerds to your little...boxes.”

“Don't you want to help Dean?” Sam teased. “It could be important family time.”

No. No no no. Not the F word. Not the word that made Jack's face light up like Time's Square at Christmas. “That would be so much fun!” the kid said, hopeful eyes now turning up to look at Dean like he was the last thing standing in the way of Jack's happiness.

Dammit. Damn Sammy and his damn mouth and damn family time. “Can I bring the pie?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Three Wayward Brothers
> 
> "We'll find them, Jack. We'll find them and bring them home."
> 
> (Yes, I'm fully aware Dean would probably be a Gryffindor in any Sorting Hat quiz but I like the idea that he's an unexpected Hufflepuff and Sam and Charlie teased him mercilessly)


	10. Three Wayward Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We'll find them, Jack. We'll find them and bring them home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last whump-heavy chapter, so I hope you enjoy! And look out for some Badass!Jack at the end.

Jack looked up from the papers spread out on the war room table as Mary traipsed down the stairs, exhaustion plain in her face and posture. “Anything?”

She shook her head, dropping into one of the chairs at the table and pulling a handful of paper out of her pocket. “We found a vamp nest, but no sign of the boys.”

Jack bit back his frustration and crossed off the spot on the map. Sam, Dean, and Castiel had been missing for three days now, after taking a case in Wyoming that might have been connected to one of Lucifer's crypts. Jack would have gone with them, but he'd stayed behind to help Mary with another hunt when Bobby had fallen ill.

“So what does that leave us?” he asked as Mary smoothed out the papers she'd brought.

“Claire called in about some trouble up near Sioux City,” Mary said. “Signs point to a rugaru, though, and that wouldn't have taken the boys. There are still a couple of hunters in Missouri and Iowa that haven't checked in.”

“It's like they just vanished.” Jack sank back in a chair and ran his hands through his hair. “I don't know what to do.”

He barely noticed Mary getting out of her chair until she had come around to wrap her arms around him from behind. “We'll find them, Jack,” she whispered, kissing the top of his head. “We'll find them and bring them home.”

* * *

“Come on, Sammy, please?” Dean propped his brother up against his shoulder, cup of filthy water to Sam's lips. “Just a little, okay?”

Sam, lost in a haze of fever and pain, tried to turn away but met the cold stone of the dungeon wall. Dean finally got a little of the water in Sam's mouth, but the younger Winchester coughed most of it back out, doubling over with a pained sob.

Footsteps down the corridor alerted Dean to their captor's return, and he huddled himself around his brother as much as he could as though to protect Sam from the fallen angel's cruelty.

It should have been easy. They'd gotten a lead on one of Lucifer's crypts—the kind that might have what they needed to free the rest of Apocalypse World and send its people home—but it had been a trap to lure wayward angels to a dark labyrinth beneath the earth. The fallen angel, Procel, had been without “entertainment” since Metatron's spell had stripped the angels of their wings, but was making up for lost time now that he had both Winchesters and Castiel in his power.

The door to the cell swung open, and Procel dragged Cas in without a word to Dean or Sam. Procel's vessel was tall and powerful, with scars that dragged across his chest and down one arm as though he'd been savaged by a hellhound. He was taking his time, enjoying himself dragging them off one by one for physical torture, or to dig through their minds for whatever secrets they might be holding. He knew about the bunker, now...about Mom and Jack and the rest of the hunters. About everyone Dean might have held close to him. About everything Sam regretted. About Cas's reprogramming.

“We've had an informative session, haven't we, little brother?” Procel crooned, locking Cas into the manacles on the wall opposite Sam. “All those little doubts and fears. So many millennia of disobedience.” He stroked a hand through Cas's hair, long fingers still trapping the angel's chin to keep his face upturned.

“Leave him alone,” Dean growled.

“Oh?” Procel turned to face the hunter, hands still on Cas's face. “Would you rather submit yourself to my gentle mercies? Or perhaps your brother?”

Dean grit his teeth and angled his body to cover Sam, but spread his arms out in invitation.

Procel laughed as he released Cas to slump to the ground, held up only by the chains around his wrists. “This is much more entertaining, little mortal. I will return...for one of them.”

Dean glared after the fallen angel as Procel locked the door to the cell and walked off down the dungeon corridor. He'd left Dean on a chain just long enough to reach Cas or Sam at either side of the cell, but the other two were chained up so tightly they couldn't move.

He left Sammy curled up against the wall, not even a blanket to cover him, and dragged himself across the cell to check on Cas. “Hey, buddy,” Dean gently set his shoulder under one of Cas's upheld arms and levered the angel up to take the pressure off his wrists. “How you holding up?”

Cas groaned and opened one bloodshot eye to study Dean. “He knows about Metatron. He knows how the angels lost their wings.”

Dean grimaced and tucked himself a little closer to Cas. There wasn't much he could do for the angel's wounds, but at least the cuffs weren't sigiled or anything so Cas could heal himself up a little bit in between torture. If Procel would just stop doing so much damage.

Sam whimpered in his corner, and Dean shot Cas an agonized look. “I'll be all right,” the angel assured him. Cas pushed himself up so he was sitting, no longer hanging by the manacles, and nodded to Sam. “Go to him, Dean.”

It was awful. Every time Dean had to leave one brother to tend to the other he felt like he was abandoning someone. They were both in such bad shape—Procel had left Dean alone, except for roughing him up a couple times and probing his mind once—and Dean was almost helpless.

At least Cas was healing. As Dean gently lifted Sam's head to rest on his shoulder, he braced them both against the wall to watch the bruises fade from Cas's face. If he could only drag Sammy the ten feet over to Cas they could at least break the fever that had the younger Winchester in a strangle hold.

“Dean?” Cas's voice, gruffer than usual, broke through the silence. “I think I have a plan.”

* * *

“You poor thing!” Rowena hurried down the stairs, dropping the carpetbag at the bottom to sweep Jack into a hug. “My poor boy. You should have called me the moment they went missing!”

Jack froze for a moment, then wrapped his arms around Rowena and buried his face in her shoulder. He and Mary had been so focused on trying to find the others it had taken them two days to think of calling Rowena. “I'm sorry.”

“None of that,” Rowena tutted. She gently pushed Jack back and patted his arms, producing a handkerchief from somewhere to dab at the tears on his face. “Just let me handle things here, Jack. I've brought everything we need for a locator spell.”

“We tried that,” Mary said. A brief nap and a large cup of coffee had revived the blonde woman a good deal, though there were still dark circles under her eyes.

“Ah, but you haven't tried _my_ locator spell,” Rowena replied. She and Mary didn't always get along, but it was clear they were both focused on bringing the boys home. “I'll need something from each of them.”

Mary sighed. “We've tried everything.”

“I need something biological,” Rowena countered. “Hair is good, or blood. Or...other fluids.”

Mary shot her a dirty look, but Jack straightened up with a gleam in his eye. “I'll be right back!”

The two woman sat in silence for a few moments, Mary studying the papers she had spread out and Rowena organizing little vials and bowls around a small cauldron she'd brought with her. “Thank you for coming,” Mary finally said.

“Yes, well, I'm afraid I'm part of the team, and that comes with certain altruistic expectations,” Rowena said with a dismissive sniff that turned into a dimpled smiled when Mary finally looked up at her. “I don't know about you, but I think it's high time someone learns not to take our boys.”

Jack ran back in the room to drop a handful of things on the table. “This is Sam's brush,” he announced, handing a small boar-bristle hairbrush over to Rowena. “I couldn't find anything in Dean's room, but this is his razor.” Dean used an electric razor, and when Jack popped open the cover there were a few bits of hair still caught under the blade.

Rowena tutted. “Well, it's not ideal,” she mused as she took the razor from Jack. “But perhaps combined with Sam's hair the spell will be strong enough.”

“And...and this.” Jack held up a feather. It was a blue so dark it was almost black, and even in the light of the war room it seemed to glow. “It's Cas's.”

“That's an angel feather?” Mary asked, almost breathless with awe.

“Oh, aye,” Rowena took the feather reverently. “Oh, Jack, this is perfect. It's a flight feather, too, much more powerful than a down feather.”

“Cas gave it to me. He said it was for emergencies.”

Rowena rested a hand on Jack's arm and squeezed fondly. “It's marvelous. It's a physical connection with our wayward angel and an emotional connection with you. We can find them with this, Jack.”

Mary began stacking papers off the table, clearing a place for the locator spell. “Let's do it.”

* * *

“No, no way,” Dean shook his head. “Cas, man, you crazy?”

“It's the only way, Dean.” Cas was studying the manacles that held him, head craned to an angle against the wall. “You have to get Sam out of here.”

“There's no way out, Cas!” Dean ran one hand through his hair in frustration. “Porky said it, this whole thing is underground.”

“Then how are you still breathing, Dean?”

Dean paused, mouth working as he considered Cas's question.

“There has to be a connection to the surface somewhere, for the air to be renewed. Find that and get Sam out of here.”

“And what about you? What'll Porky do when it's just you down here?”

Predictably, Cas didn't answer.

“No way. We leave together or not at all.”

“Sam is dying, Dean!”

Dean shut his eyes, turning away from the angel to lean over his brother. He knew it, of course he knew it. Sam's wounds were infected, he was out of his mind with fever, he couldn't hold down even a mouthful of water...if they didn't get out of here Sammy would die. “Cas....”

“You can come back for me once Sam is safe,” Cas said. “I will hold off Procel until then.”

“Cas.”

Cas set his jaw and slammed his hand into the wall at an off angle. Dean flinched at the sound as Cas's thumb popped out of joint, but the Cas had slid his hand free and made short work of the other manacle.

Then the angel crossed the cell, resting his hands on the brothers' foreheads for a moment to send a small pulse of healing energy through them. “I cannot spare much,” he said, snapping the manacles off Dean's wrists with barely a change of expression. “I can buy you some time.”

“Cas,” Dean caught Cas by the sleeve. “Just...just don't die, okay?”

Cas rested his hand on top of Dean's briefly, then strode to the door and in another show of force blasted it open. “Procel!”

While Cas was challenging the fallen angel to a fight, Dean hefted his gigantor little brother over his shoulders in a fireman's carry. “Come on, Sammy,” he murmured. Sam's breathing was a little easier, and his fever might have even been down a little, but obviously Cas couldn't heal everything and still distract Procel while the Winchesters escaped.

Dean heard the fallen angel answer Cas's call and took off into the shadows, running as fast as he could with his brother's dead weight across his shoulders. Procel had called this a labyrinth, but Cas had gotten enough of an idea of the layout that Dean easily found the junction they'd first fallen into three days ago.

The trap had been a magical one, sucking them from the false crypt into the heart of the underground passages, but if Cas was right there was something providing fresh air to this place. He could hear the echoes of combat down the corridors, the faint snarl of Procel's voice and the rumble of Cas's. The thunder of bodies being tossed into stone.

Then Cas screamed.

Dean froze, heart pounding. Had they gotten away? Were they far enough? Would Procel dig into Cas's mind and find their escape plan?

He gently lowered Sam down, tucking him into a small alcove in the rocks. “Sammy?” Dean patted his brother's face, trying to rouse Sam's attention. “Come on, kiddo. Rise and shine.”

Sam groaned and rolled his head to one side, then pain-cloudy hazel eyes slowly blinked open. “D-dean?”

“Yeah, kiddo,” Dean rested one hand on Sam's face and forced a smile. “I'm gonna have to leave you here to help Cas, okay?”

Sam blinked up at him. “What...Cas?”

“Cas is in trouble. Think you can stay here for me?”

The younger Winchester started to get up, but Dean easily held him back down. “No, man, you're in no shape for this. I'm going after him, and we'll be back for you, okay?”

Finally, Sam seemed to get it, and relaxed back against the stone. “Hurry,” he whispered.

“I'll be right back,” Dean promised.

* * *

“There!” Rowena leaned over the map as the tip of Cas's feather hovered over a spot. The end of the feather was burning as the energy of the spell spent itself, but a bright ring of ash now circled a graveyard just outside of Wichita.

“How fast can we be there?” Mary asked.

“I can have us there in thirty minutes,” Rowena replied.

“I can have us there now.”

Mary and Rowena turned to stare at Jack. The young nephilim was bent over the map, eyes narrowed in focus. “I can fly us there.”

The women exchanged glances. “I'll get my gun,” Mary said.

* * *

“Winchester!”

Dean flinched, pressing himself closer to the wall. He'd avoided detection somehow, though he knew he was circling closer to Procel's main chambers. At least there were no other beings in the underground maze, though whether that was by design or the fallen angel had destroyed them over the years he couldn't say. He could only pray Sammy stayed hidden until he could rescue Cas, and then that the three of them could find a way out.

“I will find you!”

Procel's voice was coming from further down the corridor now, and Dean hurried around the next corner to follow the spiral that descended to the torture chamber. There was evidence of the fight between Procel and Cas all along the path—chunks of stone torn up or gouged out from Procel's claws, a few splashes of blood that were probably Cas's, and impact sights from where celestial fists had missed their targets.

He almost wished he could have seen it. Cas was always a total badass in combat, but Dean had never really seen what his friend was capable hand-to-hand.

“Cas?” Dean whispered, trying to keep close to the wall as he entered the torture chamber just in case. “Oh no...”

The only way he knew Cas was even alive was the lack of burned wingprints behind him. Cas's face and body were streaked with blood, with horrible jagged slashes cutting him open from shoulder to knee. He hung from the wall, a hook embedded through the meat of one shoulder, legs and arms limp.

“Cas?” Dean crept up closer, staring up at his injured friend in horror. This was bad...this was worse than anything Procel had done. Not knowing where else to start, Dean gently wrapped his arms around Cas's upper legs to lift him off the hook, but that action had the angel snapping back to consciousness with a scream of pain.

“Cas! It's me!” Dean hissed. “Come on, man, it's me!”

“Dean?” Cas's voice was even rougher than before, his eyes wild in his bruised face. “What are you doing?”

“Getting you down,” Dean replied. “It's gonna hurt, man, I'm sorry,” he warned, bracing himself to lift Cas off the hook. The angel sucked in a breath and went rigid for a moment, then let himself fall limp as Dean managed to lever him up enough to free him from the hook through his shoulder.

“Can you move?” Dean asked. Cas managed to keep his feet, but only barely and only by hanging onto Dean.

“Well enough,” the angel replied stubbornly. “I thought you were getting Sam out of here.”

“And I thought I was coming back for you,” Dean retorted. He could see, now, that Cas had planned on Procel eventually killing him, his only hope being that Sam and Dean could escape. “Let's get back to Sammy.”

“Winchester!”

Dean's heart fell as he and Cas turned to see the fallen angel glowering at them. “Porky,” he replied, forcing an irreverent tone into his voice. “How's things?”

Procel growled, gesturing with one hand to send Dean and Cas flying to opposite sides of the room. “I knew I should have broken your legs,” he mused, looming over Dean. “Guess there's plenty of time to correct that.”

A sudden light flared in the room, followed by the sound of rustling feathers, then a familiar voice called out a Gaelic word and a hex bag struck Procel on the side of the face. The fallen angel shrieked, clawing at the spell bag that had leached onto him to draw his energy out.

“Rowena?” Dean stared past the fallen angel to the red-haired witch, who had another hex bag ready to go. Then Procel's body shuddered with the impact of a half-dozen shots from a revolver, and Procel lurched down on his knees to reveal the blonde woman standing next to the witch.

“ _Mom_?”

“Dean!” Mary rushed forward, catching him by the hands to pull him up. “Are you all right? Where's Sam?”

“How are you here?” Dean replied, eyes hovering first on Mary's face, then on Rowena's profile as the witch fussed over their angel, pulling a vial of purple liquid out of one pocket and trying to coax Cas into drinking it.

“Rowena used a locator spell,” Mary explained. “And Jack flew us here.”

“Jack?” Dean twisted around, but there was no sign of the nephilim. “Where's Jack?”

“Dean!” Cas was trying to push Rowena aside, though the witch was having none of it. “Where's Procel?”

* * *

When they'd gotten closer to the crypt, Jack had finally been able to sense his fathers' presences. They were weak and wounded, and their was a fourth, darker energy close by. He'd been alarmed to realize that his fathers were separated, but quickly decided to send Mary and Rowena to where he'd sensed two of them, and find the third one on his own.

And he did, landing a few feet away from Sam just as a horribly disfigured angel with twisted, malevolent grace did as well.

The fallen angel, though favoring a wound in its side and nearly blinded with magical burns, loomed over Sam with a wicked smile. “At least I still have you,” he whispered, bending down to stroke a hand through Sam's hair. “Though I wish I didn't have to kill a mind so full of guilt and regret.”

“That's enough.” Jack let a little of his power show, the kind Dean always said made his hair stand on end. The fallen angel chuckled and turned to face Jack.

“And just what are you?” he asked. “Not a little angel, no. Come to play with Procel in his domain?”

The fallen angel, Procel, was giving off a malevolent presence that beat at Jack's power. He grit his teeth and focused, letting every cell flare with celestial energy. “Step away from him.”

“You are a child,” Procel countered, taking a step forward. “I can feel your doubts, your suffering. Oh, the secrets you must hold!”

Jack grit his teeth and unleashed it all, feeling the shadow of his wings flare out behind him, the tunnel turning yellow in the glow of his eyes. “That's enough!”

Procel had cowered back a little under Jack's display. “Wh-what are you?”

Jack took a step forward and raised one hand. “A Winchester.”

The fallen angel screamed in agony as Jack's power seized its twisted grace, then with one sharp gesture he crushed the dark presence and its vessel fell, empty, to the corridor floor, wings burning away to ashes.

“Sam?” Jack hurried over to kneel by the taller man. He didn't know how to heal yet—Cas was teaching him, but it was much harder to knit muscle and bone together than to tear them apart. “Sam?”

Sam groaned and one hand flailed out, which Jack caught. “Dean?”

“No, Sam, it's Jack. We're here to rescue you.”

“Jack?”

“Yes,” Jack smiled, glancing up as he heard the others coming through the corridors. “Yes, Sam. We're here. We're taking you home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Procel on Angelicpedia.com is listed as the fallen angel that can speak of secrets and hidden things.
> 
> Next time: Two Crazy Santas
> 
> "This isn't Christmas! This is war!"
> 
> Just a head's up, next chapter is action/comedy, then the last chapter is pretty much the Christmas episode we've all wanted. We're almost through another year of Fictmas! Happy holidays, everybody! Whatever you celebrate (or not) in December, I wish you peace and happiness and all the love you deserve.


	11. Two Crazy Santas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This isn't Christmas. This is war!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ho-ho-ho! Here I come, between packing my suitcase and making peanut butter pie, for the penultimate chapter! Hope you enjoy!

The mall wasn't quite as busy as Dean had expected, for two days before Christmas. Sam had dragged him...well, _them_...on a shopping excursion on the way home from an early Christmas dinner at Jody's. Ostensibly to pick out an actual, nice gift for Mom, but really for the sales at the geek stores in the bags in Sam's hands were anything to go by.

“Dude,” Dean stopped Sam in his tracks with tried-and-true method of a forearm across the chest. “Check it out.”

It was a mall. It was Christmas. That meant Santa.

Sam squinted at the trailing queue leading up to the throne where a man dressed as Santa and assisted by teenagers dressed as elves was taking pictures with screaming children. “No, Dean.”

“Come on. You know you want to,” Dean grinned.

“No. We are not taking pictures with Santa!”

“But Jack's never done it before,” Dean cajoled, glancing over his shoulder to where Cas was waiting patiently while Jack picked through wallets and keychains at one of the mall kiosks. “Come on, Sammy, you know Mom would love it.”

“Dean, he's-”

“Technically three,” Dean held up a finger, his grin growing broader as Sam spluttered for a response. “I know for a fact you've never had one, either. And I highly doubt Heaven ever let their little fledgings sit on Santa's lap.”

“No one is sitting in his lap,” Sam protested.

Dean fist-pumped in victory. “I'll get in line, you grab the kids,” he called, jogging to the back of the queue. The teenager organizing the line gave him an odd look, but he just gave her a bright smile. “Just reunited with my brothers,” he lied. “Last time we were together was for a family Christmas photo.”

Her eyes softened and she nodded in understanding, pulling out a numbered card. “Doris will call you when it's your turn for the picture. We'll take three pictures, and you can choose your favorite or take all three. Prices for prints are on the back of the card.”

He turned the card over as the line slowly moved and studied the prices. A little high, but it was Christmas...besides, Mom really would love it. They'd never gotten a chance to do this with Sammy, and the only picture they'd had of Dean and Santa had gotten ruined when the Steins tore up the bunker.

“Dean?” Cas was on the other side of the rope for the photo line, staring quizzically up the line at the central figures. “What are we doing?”

“Pictures with Santa,” Dean explained, lifting the rope so Cas could duck underneath. “It's what normal families do at Christmas.”

“Why?”

“I just...Jack, give him the eyes!” Dean turned to Jack as he and Sam wandered up.

Jack blinked up at him. “The...eyes?”

“You know,” Dean made a vague gesture. “That thing you do when you want family time or the last piece of pizza.”

Jack tilted his head and stared at Dean, who shook his head in frustration. “No, just...Jack, Cas doesn't want to take a picture with Santa with the rest of us, not even for Christmas.”

Jack looked at Cas, eyes widening and yep...there were the eyes. “Cas?”

“That's not what I said, Dean!” Cas huffed. He tucked himself into line behind Dean, arms folded, muttering something under his breath that Dean pretended not to hear.

Dean was still grinning. At least they looked like a real family to anyone watching this exchange. He started building their story in his head as they drew closer—he and Sam would have had the same parents, obviously, but Jack had a different mother. And Cas...Cas was Jack's half-brother, Sam and Dean's step-brother, but they had all been raised together until their parents died and they'd been split up.

He was just concocting the tear-jerking tale about Cas having to go back to his birth father and Jack into foster care while he and Sam were left with an uncle when the screaming started.

“Dean!” Sam had a hold of his arm, tugging him to the side as the families standing in line started stampeding away from Santa's throne.

“What's going on?” Jack asked, squished between Sam's gigantic frame and Cas's over-sized trench coat.

“Holy...” Dean felt his jaw open as he stared.

It was Santa. Not a department store one, dressed up in a cheap wool suit and itchy fake beard. This guy was tall, and rugged, and built like a linebacker, and wearing a black and red plaid shirt, and had a beard that was so twisted and snarled it looked like several mice lived in it.

“Nicholaus!” Plaid Santa roared, hefting a piece of decorative fencing from the Santa picture backdrop in one meaty hand. “Nicholaus, you coward!”

Mall Santa was cowering behind his throne, beard askew, two teenage girls in elf costumes hiding behind him.

“Family business time,” Dean muttered under his breath, shouldering past panicked soccer moms with wailing toddlers. “Hey, buddy!” he shouted over the chaos, but another voice behind him roared an answer even louder.

“Kristoff, you fool!”

Dean twisted around. There was another Santa...in dark brown pants and a bright red sweater, but with the same wild, tangled beard. “Kristoff! I swore to kill you when we met again!”

Kristoff—Plaid Santa—gave another roar of anger and charged at the Santa behind Dean.

Something collided with Dean, knocking him to the ground, and when he tried to bat it off he realized it was Cas tackling him out of the way of Nicholaus's furious charge. The two bearded men clashed in the center of the mall court, deep voices howling insults and threats as they battled.

Go time. “Sammy, you and Jack try to get the civilians back,” Dean shouted over the clash of the saints. “Cas, you take the one in the sweater.”

Dean took off toward the brawling Santas, managing to twist out of the way of a few panicked children that had been separated from their parents. Sammy was good with animals, he could handle the rugrats. He could sense more than see Cas to his periphery as the angel wove through the panicking crowd to reach the opposite side of the fighters.

He crouched, waiting for his moment, and when Sweater Santa knocked Plaid Santa back a few steps Dean leaped. He caught Plaid Santa around the neck and wrapped his legs around the big man's waist, trying to lever himself around enough to put Santa in a choke-hold.

The big man roared, massive hands swiping at Dean to swat him off, but Dean held on with both eyes squeezed shut and his teeth clamped together.

“Petty little man!” Sweater Santa was bellowing. Dean pried one eye open just enough to see Cas dart away from a punch that would have knocked a mortal man out cold. He paid for his moment of inattention, though, as Plaid Santa seized him by the back of the shirt and threw him bodily toward Cas. Dean collided with the angel and sent them both sprawling, though Cas managed to turn his into some kind of fancy angel combat roll and be back on his feet in a moment.

Dean, however, had to stand back up the old-fashioned way, cursing and grunting the entire time. “That didn't work,” he commented. “What do you think they are?”

“They're just men, Dean,” Cas replied. “Men made the worse for drink.”

Great. _Drunk_ giant, angry Santas. “How do we stop them?”

“Humans have odd traditions at this time of the year,” Cas mused. “Perhaps this is how they celebrate Christmas.”

“Christmas?” Dean stared at the angel. “This isn't Christmas. This is war!” He had to dodge back as another part of the photo backdrop came flying in their direction and shattered the window of the store behind them. “New plan. We both take the one in the sweater. He seems calmest. We get him on our side, we all stop Plaid Santa.”

Cas grabbed Dean by the arm, moving him exactly four steps to the right as Sweater Santa flung Santa's throne in their direction. “You were saying?”

“Shut up, let's just team up and stop him!”

Dean didn't wait for Cas to answer, but dove for the sweater-wearing man's legs. It was an easy way to get kicked in the breadbasket, but he'd noticed these guys were mostly punching and throwing things, so maybe their legs were their weakness.

Nope. Not really. Sweater Santa landed a kick on Dean's shoulder that nearly knocked him free, but Dean compensated by wrapping himself around the other leg and hanging on as a dead weight. Cas did something tricky to Sweater Santa's arm and twisted himself around it until he could get his legs locked around the big man's neck. Sweater Santa batted at the angel, but Cas was unmoving, and the big man's movements got slower and slower until he slumped to the ground, dazed or unconscious.

“Murderer!” Plaid Santa tore Cas free from Sweater Santa's neck. “You killed my brother!”

“Sonuva _bitch_ ,” Dean swore as he tried to pull himself free from the fallen giant. “You've gotta be kidding me.”

Cas was fending off the man's blows, but even an angel would tire under that onslaught. Dean winced just picturing the bruises that would be on the angel's forearms before this was over.

“Hey! Nicky!” Dean staggered to his feet, finding a torn piece of scenery fence nearby. “You dropped this!”

He swung it at Plaid Santa, but the big man caught it in one hand, sneered at Dean, and backhanded him into Cas.

“That one is Kristoff,” the angel offered, unhelpfully, as they picked themselves up again. “Nicholaus is the one we rendered unconscious.”

“Yeah, not for long,” Dean panted, seeing Sweater Santa stirring. “We gotta end this, Cas.”

The angel gave him a tight nod. “Can you distract him for a few seconds?”

Dean gave a dry laugh as he pressed one hand to a stitch in his side. “Don't know about a few seconds, man. Maybe one.”

“One will suffice.”

Then Cas was off. And _damn_ how was he still so fast after all this.

“You'd better have a real plan,” Dean muttered. “Hey! Lumberjack!” Completely ignoring the irony of _Dean Winchester_ insulting another man's plaid, he waved his arms to gain the big man's attention. “Why don't you try someone your own size?”

Plaid Santa gave a mighty yell and charged for Dean, but stopped in his tracks as his eyes rolled back in his head. He fell to the ground, unconscious, Cas standing behind him with one outstretched hand.

“Son of a bitch, Cas!” Dean complained, bending over his own knees to catch his breath. “Couldn't you have done that before?”

“I thought it best to maintain a low profile,” the angel replied. “I had to wait for a moment when it would look like I rendered him unconscious through force.”

“Oh...yeah...that's, that's great,” Dean panted. “Now what do we do?”

At least Sammy had held up his end of the plan, keeping the civvies out of the way. And look, here he was now, with lots of lovely mall security in tow.

“They're all yours,” Dean waved, still unable to quite catch his breath. “Take them back to their elves or something.”

Jack was with Sam, eyes wide with excitement. “Are you guys okay?” he asked.

Dean waved vaguely, finally straightening up to double-check the damage on his body. Just a few bruises, though he could feel his cheek swelling with an obvious black eye. Cas was ruffled, as well, his clothing torn in a few places but otherwise unscathed.

“Um...excuse me?” one of the elves, who'd been helping the mall Santa back up to his feet after the fight, timidly approached them. “Do you know...what are we supposed to do now?”

Her nametag said Doris. Dean patted his pockets and pulled a slightly-crinkled paper out triumphantly. “Number 84?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dude, if anyone makes fan art, can we please have the boys gathered around a mall Santa in the aftermath of this battle? 
> 
> Final Chapter: A Winchester Christmas Eve
> 
> "The rules are simple: twenty minutes, forty bucks. Christmas Eve, Winchester style."


	12. A Winchester Christmas Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The rules are simple: twenty minutes, forty bucks. Christmas Eve, Winchester style!"

“I'm sorry, sir,” the receptionist said. “Because the roads are closed we're overbooked, I can only get you the one room.”

Dean let his head rest in his hands as Sam took the key from the receptionist. At least Cas and the kid didn't need much sleep, but it would be crowded until the roads were open.

And on top of that, it was Christmas Eve. They should have been halfway to the bunker by now, but a freak blizzard had shut down the interstate for miles and there was just no way to get out, not without renting a couple of snow mobiles and even that was a risk. They'd managed to make it as far as the motel attached to a truck stop, but only after the Impala had gone off the road three times and even then Dean was convinced Jack was somehow using his powers to keep them on the road.

“I'm sorry,” the receptionist said again, her smile sympathetic. “At least we have a full continental breakfast in the morning, and the truck stop has the best fried chicken in town.”

Sam said something in reply, then gently steered Dean away from the counter to where Cas and Jack were waiting. “They could only give us one room,” he explained. “It has two double beds, but she said we can get a cot and they gave us a discount.”

“The road won't be cleared until the 26th or later,” Dean added. “So looks like we're missing Christmas.”

“Come on, man,” Sam elbowed him. “Mom's gonna hold off on dinner until we get home. We'll still celebrate together, just a little bit later.”

“I know, it's just...” Dean let his voice trail off and scrubbed one hand through his hair. It was the first year all of them could be together for Christmas. Mom had gotten a tree, they were gonna do a traditional dinner, he'd even managed to stockpile a few gifts for Mom and the guys in his room. It just wasn't fair to be stuck in some out-of-the-way truck stop for Christmas.

“Look, why don't you guys head up to the room,” Sam suggested. “I'll get us something to eat, she said the truck stop had good fried chicken.”

Dean's head came up. “What did you say?”

“What, fried chicken?” Sam shrugged. “Supposed to be the best in town, that's probably the best we'll get tonight.”

Dean could tell the moment the memory hit his brother. Sammy's expression shifted from resigned optimism to something closer to actual Christmas cheer. “Dean...are you thinking...?”

“Hang on a sec,” Dean hurried back to the counter and got a piece of paper from the receptionist. He tore it into four and scribbled a name on each piece, then snatched Jack's beanie off his head to stuff the papers in. “All right, secret Santa time. Draw a name, put it back if it's yours.”

Cas was frowning. “I don't understand.”

“Come on,” Dean shook the hat at him. “Just draw a name, but keep it secret.”

He let the others draw, then took the last for itself. “All right, so let's hit the truck stop.”

“What are we doing?” Jack asked, tugging his hat back on his head as they followed Dean through the connecting doors to the convenience store.

“We're doing a gift exchange,” Sam explained. “We each drew one of our names out of the hat, and now we're going to buy a present for that person.”

“It's kind of a tradition,” Dean added. “Goes back to when me and Sam were kids.” He hesitated for a moment, then wrapped an arm around Jack's shoulders. “I've got the kid, you take the angel?” he offered.

Sam laughed, but nodded, and took Cas by the arm to usher him to the opposite side of the convenience store. Judging by the panicked looks the angel was sending him, Dean had a fairly good idea that Cas had drawn his name. He had Sam's, which meant Jack probably had Cas's.

“So what do we do?” Jack asked.

“The rules are simple,” Dean explained, pulling a handful of bills out of his wallet. “Twenty minutes, forty bucks. Christmas Eve, Winchester style.”

Jack accepted the money, but still looked dubious. “So...I buy a present?”

“Sammy and me've been doing this for years,” Dean said. “Buying crappy presents at the gas station. We were gonna do something different this year, but it looks like mother nature wants to keep up the traditions.”

Jack was still frowning. “So what do I buy?”

“You just...look, you got Cas's name, right?”

“I'm not supposed to tell you.”

“It's not...” Dean sighed. “It's pretty easy to figure out, with just the four of us,” he said. “All you do, you look around the store and look for something you think Cas would like. It can be something serious, or it can be like a joke gift. Just don't spend over the forty dollars, okay?”

Jack nodded solemnly. “I think I understand.”

“Great!” Dean already had his eye on the _Busty Asian Beauties_ magazines behind the counter. It was a tradition, after all. “Why don't you look around and let me know if you need help?”

* * *

“I don't understand.”

Sam smiled, gently pushing Cas to the side to let a family pass. “Dean and I...for a long time we didn't really celebrate Christmas. This is just something we did together: a bucket of fried chicken and crappy gifts from the gas station.”

Cas was staring at a rack of vanity plates. “Sam?”

“Look, Cas, it's Dean. Just think of something he likes, he's gonna appreciate it. Hell, I gave him a candy bar and motor oil the first time, he's just happy we can do this together.”

The angel was silent for a moment. “So it isn't the gifts themselves, but the experience?”

“Exactly!” Sam patted him on the back. He'd drawn Jack's name out of the hat and already knew exactly what to do—there were some fleece blankets with Christmas-themed patterns on them, and a ridiculous deerstalker hat with reindeer antlers and a bright red nose on the brim. “Think you can pick something out while I grab dinner and head back to the room?”

Cas nodded. Sam made his way to the counter, stopping along the way for a quart of eggnog and a fifth of whiskey.

There were other traditions to keep, after all.

* * *

So it wasn't the bunker, there wasn't a tree, and no dinner warming in the oven, but as Dean looked around at the decorations Sam had wheedled out of the motel staff he couldn't quite stop the grin spreading across his face. “Sammy, you didn't.”

The younger Winchester spread his arms. “Hey, it's tradition.”

Granted, tradition was usually _stealing_ the decorations, not _borrowing_ them, but it was okay to make some new ones.

“It looks great,” Jack said with a wide, bright smile. “And we still get a Christmas with Mary, right?”

“Of course,” Dean replied. “This is just the traditional Winchester Christmas first.”

“Speaking of traditions,” Sam began.

“No, Sammy,” Dean groaned.

“Hey, you wanted Winchester Christmas,” the younger Winchester retorted, dipping a plastic cup in the ice bucket where he'd mixed up the eggnog. “Dad's favorite Christmas spirit.”

Dean took his cup, throwing back the heavily-spiked eggnog with little more than a shudder. Cas sniffed it, took a sip, and gave no reaction. Jack tried to down his like Dean had, but choked halfway through and had to spit the rest out.

“Right!” Dean rubbed his hands together. “Presents!”

He dropped a plastic shopping bag in front of Sam, who shot him a dirty look before digging into it. “Well, well! Skin mags!” Sam laughed. “No shaving cream, I see...but a six-pack of lighters and—wait, did you steal this salt from the concession line?”

Almost a dozen individual salt packets tumbled out of the bag. Dean threw his head back and laughed. “Merry Christmas, Sammy! Now you've got your own portable salt-and-burn kit!”

“Thanks,” Sam shook his head with a wry smile. “Here, Jack, this is for you.”

Jack loved the blanket, and immediately crammed the hat on his head. He'd gotten Cas, it turned out, a stack of CDs from the bargain bin and a long blue-and-gray striped scarf that was reminiscent of the tie he'd worn before Jack was born.

Then it was Dean's turn. The angel nervously passed over a brown paper bag, and the hunter weighed it in his hands for a moment before peeking inside.

“Aw, Cas,” Dean grinned over the bag, then upended it on the little table they'd pulled between them. There was a keychain with a bottle opener, an air freshener that smelled like bacon, and what looked like every flavor of candy the truck stop carried. “Thanks man, this is great.”

Sam poured his own cup of horrible eggnog and started unpacking the chicken dinner they'd brought up to the room. “Think there's a game on?”

“There's always a game on,” Dean declared, commandeering the remote.

They found something, though the signal was too scratchy to fully determine what sport or language was being broadcast. Sam and Dean immediately picked teams, while Cas tried to translate the language over the Winchesters' arguments. Jack, in his new hat, just leaned back against the bed with his legs folded to watch his family's antics.

It was awkward, and nontraditional, and not what any of them had planned.

But in the end, that was what made it a Winchester Christmas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the end, folks! Hope you have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

**Author's Note:**

> FYI: I made up the summoning stuff on my own, but Stillwater and Hugo are real places. In-universe Donna is the sheriff of Stillwater, and Hugo is another town in the same county. 
> 
> Next up, Day Two: Eleven Witches Witching


End file.
